Nightfall till Daybreak (The Kingdom of the East Angles Book 2)

by Jayne Castel

  Inside was quite different to what Freya had expected. The interior appeared austere compared to the wall hangings, furs and weaponry that graced the walls in the Great Hall. It was very clean and the fresh rush-matting crunched underfoot. A fire pit, crackling gently, sat towards the front of the hall and in the center of the space hung a heavy curtain, blocking the other half of the space from view. Freya imagined that the king’s quarters lay beyond the curtain, but when she later brought a basket of the king’s clothing into the hall, she discovered that his bower was but a small, curtained-off alcove, set against the wall. The rest of the space was dedicated to an austerely furnished prayer chamber behind it.

  The prayer chamber was impressive. Although the walls of the hall were made of wood, stone had also been used as decoration here. Much labor and skill had obviously gone into it. Smooth, round river stones covered the floor, having been pressed into the soft earth to form a layer of pavers. Stone plinths skirted the edges of the chamber, on which burned tallow candles, and a great stone altar rose at the far end. An ornately carved wooden cross perched atop it.

  This was what Sigeberht had given up the magnificence of the Golden Hall for; this was his dream.

  Once Freya and Hereric had finished unloading the cart, the king sent the boy out to light the clay and turf oven while Freya set about preparing the evening meal. It was a special occasion and so Sigeberht had wavered from his usual request for pottage and griddle bread, instead requesting a rabbit pie.

  A brace of rabbits sat on one of the tables, ready to be gutted and skinned, and Freya got to work without delay. The warriors left the hall to see to the horses and explore the surrounding area, while Sigeberht and Felix disappeared behind the curtain to devote themselves to prayer.

  For the first time ever, Freya found herself alone inside the hall of her lord. Glancing about, she reveled in the sudden privacy. Unlike Rendlaesham’s Great Hall, which always had groups of women sewing, weaving or at their distaffs, or warriors playing knucklebones by the fire, Sigeberht’s new home was quiet and still. The responsibility for cooking and cleaning here would be hers, and no one else’s. Used to hard work, the thought did not worry Freya overly much. In fact, she found herself enjoying the peace as she made bread dough, skinned the rabbits and made a suet pastry for the pie. She flavored the pie’s filling, as her mother used to, with herbs, onions and wild garlic, before covering it with the crust.

  When the pie was ready to be baked, Freya carried it outside, her arm-muscles protesting from the weight of it. To the left of the hall, she found the small clay and turf oven. Smoke drifted from the oven’s entrance, making it resemble a dragon’s lair. Hereric had been toiling over it for a while, his eyes streaming from the smoke. Freya left the pie with the boy, warning him that she would do more than clip his ear if he let it burn. She then returned to the hall, where she kneaded the loaves of bread that would go in to bake later.

  The men would need some vegetables to go with their rabbit pie, so Freya took a large basket and made her way back outside. The aroma of baking pastry greeted her when she ducked out of the doorway. Hereric waved to Freya, assuring her that the precious pie was cooking nicely.

  “I’m going to collect some vegetables from the fields,” Freya called to him. “I shall be back shortly if anyone needs me.”

  Humming softly to herself, Freya walked around the edge of the hall and down a slope to where two neatly tended fields ran down to a row of willow trees and the banks of the Lark River. There were few people about, just an elderly man and women who were weeding at the end closest to the hall.

  “Wes hāl!” Freya called to them. “I need some vegetables for the king’s dinner. What’s ready to be picked?”

  “There are some cabbages that need eating.” The elderly man straightened up and motioned to the end nearest the river. “And a few sweet carrots too.”

  Thanking them, Freya set off down the field. She enjoyed the feel of the sun on her face; although there was a slight crispness to the air that warned that autumn was approaching. She reached the end of the garden, put down her basket and set about choosing two cabbages for the evening meal. Freya pulled up a large bunch of purple and red carrots and was dusting the soil off her hands, when she heard the splash of water in the river behind her.

  She turned and peered through the curtain of draping willow. Where had that noise come from?

  At first she saw nothing, but when she stepped closer to the bank and pulled aside a branch so that she could see better, Freya realized what it was that had been splashing about in the river.

  Her breath caught in her throat and she froze, staring through the gap in the foliage.

  A strikingly beautiful man was bathing in the river.

  She watched, transfixed, as the man stood up. He had a warrior’s body. His back was to her and the water streamed down the muscular planes of his shoulders, back and buttocks. He was naked save for his arm rings, one on his left arm and two on his right, bronze and gold – gifts from his lord for his valor. Then, oblivious to his audience, the man dove into the water once more, disappearing under its eddying surface for some time.

  Freya swallowed and let out the breath she had been holding. She should move away before he saw her but still she lingered, waiting for him to resurface.

  When he did, he was facing her this time. Freya sucked her breath in once more as her gaze raked down the hard, masculine lines of his body.

  It was Aidan. The sight of him, his skin glistening in the afternoon sun, made Freya’s limbs melt. She felt breathless, as if she had been running.

  Unaware that he was being watched, Aidan flicked his wet, dark hair off his face and began to wade towards the bank.

  It was then that he saw her. He stopped, mid-step, their gazes meeting.

  Unlike if their positions had been reversed, there was no embarrassment in his eyes. Aidan returned her stare; his face unreadable. Moments passed before he slowly smiled. It was a sensual, knowing smile – a dangerous smile. The same one he had given her when he had caught her staring at him by the water trough.

  Mortified, Freya ripped her gaze away and stumbled back from the river bank. Would she ever learn? Woden save her, he was beautiful to look upon. Just the sight of his nakedness made her senses reel- made her itch to touch him. The worst of it was that the arrogant churl knew it.

  Freya hurried back to her basket, scooped it up and strode back up to the hall, her face flaming.

  Aidan watched Freya flee back up the narrow strip of grass between the vegetable beds. Her back was rigid and her shoulders hunched in her mortification. Aidan’s smile faded and he sighed.

  He was tired of this game.

  The naked lust on her face as she had watched him told him everything he needed to know. Despite her rejection of him at Beltaine – one that he had invited – Freya wanted him as badly as he did her. He had tried to keep his distance, to pretend she did not matter but the truth of it was that she was never far from his thoughts. He knew that his distant manner and coldness, after his charm and smiles, had confused her. Initially, he had thought she would welcome it but the look on her face just now told an altogether different story.

  Aidan waded to the bank and retrieved a scratchy blanket that he had hung over a willow branch.

  She is the only beacon of light in your life since you set foot in Britannia, he reminded himself as he climbed out of the water and began to dry himself off. Perhaps it’s time you treated her with the respect she deserves.

  ***

  That evening, Sigeberht, Felix and the king’s men dined on rabbit pie accompanied by boiled cabbage and carrots that had been tossed in butter and sweetened with a little honey.

  Freya nervously cut wedges of pie and served them to the king and his companions on wooden plates. Hereric filled the men’s cups with mead before the two slaves stepped back and allowed the men to enjoy their meal.

  “It smells good,” Hereric whispered to Freya, his eyes huge on h
is thin face. “Will there be enough for us?”

  Hereric’s impish expression made Freya smile.

  “We’ll have to see. It depends on how hungry the men are.”

  Sigeberht took a mouthful of pie, before giving a grunt and a nod that the food was to his liking. He did not look in Freya’s direction, or acknowledge her in any way; nevertheless Sigeberht’s reaction pleased her. He usually paid little attention to food. This was the most noticeable reaction her cooking had ever roused in him.

  Aidan, on the other hand, took his first bite and chewed carefully, pleasure suffusing his face. Freya had noticed how the unrelenting diet of pottage, gruel and boiled vegetables at Rendlaesham had made him screw his face up on more than one occasion. This fare was far more to his liking and the delight on his face was evident. He took another mouthful. Then, he straightened up and looked straight at Freya.

  Once again, he had caught her watching him.

  He smiled then – not the smile when she had caught him bathing in the river – that had made her body go both hot and cold, and had caused her mind to whirl in confusion. This was a warm smile, one of thanks.

  Then, Aidan winked at her before returning to his meal.

  Freya looked down at the rush-matting, her face flushing.

  Aidan knocked her off balance. First his flirting, then his dismissal, followed by warmth; it was impossible to know how he would react. He may not be the king’s slave but the events of the past summer were changing him.

  Freya wondered what kind of man he would be by the time Yule arrived.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Two days after his arrival at Beodricesworth, Sigeberht rode with Felix and a handful of warriors to Barrow.

  On horseback, it was a short enough ride from the king’s new hall. Aidan and another warrior named Aldwulf led the way into Barrow, through a scattering of wattle and daub houses. Smoke drifted up from holes in the thatched roofs. It was a crisp morning with a bright blue sky and gently scudding clouds. Villagers came out to greet the king and his entourage. Children called out in sing-song voices and ran behind the horses.

  They rode into the center of the village; a narrow green surrounded by houses. A structure, larger than the surrounding dwellings, sat at one end of the green: the hall of Bercthun, one of Sigeberht’s ealdormen. It was Bercthun the king had come to see.

  The small party drew to a halt and dismounted their horses.

  Bercthun of Barrow stepped out of his hall to greet them. He was a stocky, muscular warrior with a grizzled blond beard and piercing blue eyes. He wore a ring vest and a collection of arm rings that glinted in the morning light. A rabbit fur cloak hung from his shoulders and he wore fur boots and lambskin breeches, cross-gartered to the knee.

  “My King.” Bercthun knelt before the king and kissed his hand. “We received word of your visit, and are honored to receive you.”

  “Thank you Bercthun.” Sigeberht nodded to his ealdorman, waiting till the warrior had risen to his feet before continuing. “Did you also receive my request?”

  Bercthun nodded, his weathered face giving nothing away.

  “I did milord, and I have four boys for you to take away with you today – one of which is my son.

  Bercthun turned and shouted over his shoulder. “Edwin. Bring the others out to greet your king.”

  Moments passed before a boy of around eight winters stepped out of the hall, followed by three other, younger lads. The boy had his father’s coloring but any similarity finished there. He was thin and pale, his blue eyes huge on a frightened face. The three other boys were similarly cowed. They were all wan and weedy. One of them was sniffing, and wiping his eyes.

  A buxom woman with long curly brown hair, wearing a sleeveless green shift of good cloth and bronze arm rings, followed the boys. She had a pugnacious face that was set in anger.

  Aidan imagined this was the ealdorman’s wife. Judging from the way she put a protective arm around Edwin’s thin shoulders and threw her husband a look of pure venom, the ealdorman’s decision to gift his son to the king had not been well-received.

  Ignoring his wife’s glare, Bercthun motioned to the boys. “The tallest of the four is my son, Edwin. The others are Osfrid, Paeda and Sebbi. Like Edwin, these boys are all the youngest sons of some of my retainers. They all have a number of sons and are happy to gift their youngest to the king. I have five sons and Edwin is not cut of a warrior’s cloth. He would be better suited to the life you can offer him.”

  “Edwin’s place is here with his kin!” Bercthun’s wife exploded, unable to hold her tongue any longer.

  “Silence woman,” Bercthun roared, turning on her, his face coloring. “Get yourself indoors before I raise a hand to you!”

  Shooting her husband a vicious look, but nevertheless obeying him, Bercthun’s wife gave her son a brief, violent hug, before she turned and went back inside the hall.

  Bercthun turned back to Sigeberht with a sigh.

  “Apologies milord. At times, Aedilthryd forgets her place.”

  “No apology is necessary,” Sigeberht replied, his iron gaze fastening on Edwin, before it shifted to the other three boys. “She need not worry. Under my care, Edwin will be clothed and fed, and will learn to read and write in Latin. When he comes of age, he will take his vows and live on at Beodricesworth as a monk.”

  “It’s a great opportunity for the lad,” Bercthun rumbled, ruffling his son’s hair. “And one he is grateful for. Is it not lad?”

  “Yes fæder,” Edwin replied, his voice quavering slightly.

  Watching the boy, Aidan felt a stab of pity for him. The youngest of five sons, scrawny and gentle-natured, Edwin had been born into a harsh world where brawn ruled. Men like Bercthun had no use for the weak; Sigeberht had offered him the perfect solution for ridding himself of a son he did not want.

  “I shall take the boys,” Sigeberht said, with a rare smile. “Aidan, give him the gold.”

  Aidan reached under his cloak and drew out a heavy drawstring bag. The gold pieces inside clinked as he handed it to Bercthun. The ealdorman took it with a nod.

  “Each of you, take a boy with you,” Sigeberht ordered his warriors. “Edwin, you will ride with Aidan.”

  Without looking at his father, his blue eyes glistening with unshed tears, the boy walked over to Aidan and lightly sprang up onto the front of his horse. He may have been thin and sickly-looking, but he was as nimble as a goat.

  The smallest boy, Osfrid, was crying openly now. Aldwulf led him over to his horse and lifted him up front. The two remaining warriors accompanying Sigeberht, beckoned Paeda and Sebbi over. Both boys were sniffing as they approached the warriors, but were just managing to hold back the tears.

  “May God bless you and your kin.” Felix of Burgundy spoke for the first time. “I will ask the Lord to watch over Barrow and its folk and keep you all safe.”

  “Thank you,” Bercthun replied, his expression hooded. “That is most kind.”

  The ealdorman turned his attention back to the king then.

  “Milord. You have heard of Penda’s warmongering?”

  Sigeberht nodded, his lips pursing slightly as if he did not wish to speak of this subject. When he did not offer a comment, Bercthun continued.

  “I can offer you at least fifty spears, strong fearsome warriors who will strike fear into the hearts of those Mercian dogs.”

  Sigeberht nodded once more. “I thank you, Bercthun. Ecgric now rules in Rendlaesham in my place. If the time comes when our kingdom must defend itself, he will do what is necessary.”

  Bercthun frowned at that. Looking on, Aidan felt embarrassment at Sigeberht’s lack of honor. A king’s duty was to protect his people; he should have no other allegiance. Sigeberht’s people loved him. They wanted to see him behave with the same defiance he had demonstrated when he stormed Rendlaesham and killed Ricberht.

  The man before Bercthun was not behaving like a king.

  “Surely, you will not leave the kingdom’s
defenses to a man who has no claim to the throne? Ecgric the Eager is not my king!” Bercthun’s face colored once more. “I and my men want to fight for the Wuffingas. Surely, you will lead your fyrd into battle when the time comes?”

  “The king serves his people in far greater ways than merely with a sword or an axe,” Felix sniffed, looking down his long nose at the ealdorman. “And it is not your place to question him.”

  “Good day Bercthun.” Sigeberht spoke up before Felix could continue. Bercthun’s face had gone thunderous and Aidan could sense conflict brewing. It would be best if they moved off.

  Aidan turned his horse and followed Sigeberht out of Barrow. Behind them, the ealdorman’s gaze burned into their backs until they rode out of sight.

  They rode in silence across a flat landscape dotted with trees. The long grass whispered in the breeze and the sun was warm on Aidan’s face. In front of him, he could feel the thin body of the boy, Edwin, trembling. He was crying.

  Aidan struggled for something to say that would soothe the boy’s suffering but could think of nothing. Edwin’s father had just handed his son over, without a glimmer of sadness or regret, for a pouch of gold in return. Despite the hardships that Aidan had endured in his childhood, he had never known the desolation of not being wanted. His father had died defending his wife and son; he would never have sold Aidan into a life of servitude.

  Edwin, son of Bercthun, had lost more than his family this day. He had lost his innocence and his trust. He had lost his childhood.

  ***

  Freya was retrieving eggs from the hen house when the riders returned to Beodricesworth. Upon hearing the thud of hooves and the rumble of men’s voices, she placed the last egg, still warm, in her basket and made her way across the yard beside the hall. There, she spied the king, Felix and a handful of men dismounting their horses.