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

by Jayne Castel

  They had four boys with them.

  Freya’s heart sank when she saw the stricken, tear-stained faces of the lads. The thin, blond boy with Aidan wore such an expression of raw grief that it almost brought Freya to tears to look upon him.

  These were the boys she had heard Sigeberht and Felix discuss the night before; the sons of warriors who would learn to read and write here at Beodricesworth before going on to become monks.

  She supposed there were worse lives. But if that were so, why did all four boys look miserable?

  Oblivious to his new charges’ unhappiness, Sigeberht strode ahead into the hall, while Felix brought up the rear, ushering the boys ahead of him. Freya watched them go before glancing at Aidan and Aldwulf. The latter shook his head in disgust and spat on the ground; his gaze was still fixed upon the door the king had disappeared through. Aldwulf was a muscular young warrior with a mane of light brown hair and a heavy-featured face. He was a man of few words, although when he did speak, he usually had something of note to say.

  “Those boys belong with their families,” he muttered, “and the king belongs back in Rendlaesham with his people!”

  Aldwulf then turned on his heel and stalked off. Aidan watched him go before turning back to Freya.

  “Sigeberht is starting to make himself unpopular,” he said in a low voice, taking care not to be overheard. “He cares not who he offends with his words about how Ecgric will protect the kingdom from the Mercians, and how his god will save us all. He offended one of his ealdormen this morning, Bercthun of Barrow, when he told him that Ecgric would be leading his fyrd, should the Mercians attack.”

  Freya felt a sting of misgiving at Aidan’s words.

  “I can’t believe he would let Ecgric lead his army into battle,” she gasped. “Why would he go to all the trouble of taking back the throne for the Wuffingas, if he is willing to give it to a man he hardly knows?”

  “He’s conflicted,” Aidan replied softly, his gaze meeting hers. “Sigeberht cannot reconcile his loyalty to his family with his allegiance to his god. He expected his mother and cousins to welcome him back to the kingdom with open arms. When that didn’t happen, his victory soured. He shed a lake of blood and murdered a king for a cold, lonely throne.”

  “He blames you too, doesn’t he?”

  Aidan gave a lopsided smile at that. Freya was aware that he was standing close, so close that she could feel the heat of his body. The sensation made it difficult to concentrate.

  “I remind him of his quest for vengeance,” Aidan replied. “He’s angry because I won’t pay penance. He wanted me to take my vows and become a monk but I refused. He’ll never stop punishing me for that.”

  “He wanted you to become a monk?” Freya raised her eyebrows and struggled to keep the incredulity out of her voice. “What good would that do?”

  “‘Twould ease his conscience.” Aidan’s gaze shifted to where the king had disappeared into the hall. “That’s why those boys are here. Sigeberht doesn’t need a kingdom to rule – just a group of young minds to bend to his will.”

  ***

  The evening meal was a somber affair. The meal was simple; no rabbit pie this evening but vegetable pottage, boiled eggs and griddle bread. The new additions to Sigeberht’s hall: Edwin, Osfrid, Paeda and Sebbi sat below the salt, at the far end of the table, whey-faced and red-eyed.

  All four boys picked at their food and kept their gazes downcast. Freya felt a pang as she placed cups of water at their elbows. They looked so lost.

  “Tomorrow will be an important day,” Felix announced to the table once Freya and Hereric had finished serving them. The monk’s gaze was riveted on the king’s four young charges. “On the morrow our king will take his vows. Sigeberht will become a monk and will aid me in your instruction.”

  The hiss of indrawn breaths from Sigeberht’s warriors punctured the silence. Aldwulf’s eyes bulged and he nearly choked on his mouthful of griddle bread.

  Aidan blanched, his gaze narrowing. “What is this?” he asked quietly. “Milord! You cannot take your vows without giving up the throne.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Sigeberht responded, his voice chill, “and I tire of hearing this subject repeated as if I am an imbecile. I will say it once more, and it will be the last time. Ecgric of Exning now rules the Kingdom of the East Angles. I took back the throne for my family and I avenged Eorpwald’s death – but received little gratitude from my own kin in return. I wish to have my life back. I have found a far greater purpose and I wish to fulfill it. I wish to serve the Lord and no one else.”

  Next to Sigeberht, Felix struggled to contain the smile that was slowly creeping across his face. There – the king had finally admitted it. He did not want his crown. Yet, Aidan was not about to let the matter rest.

  “You made a promise to the people of this land when you were crowned king,” Aidan ground out, barely able to restrain his temper. “They will not accept your decision. They will expect you to lead them, to protect them. The Mercians are gathering at our borders. Ecgric is amassing a fyrd, but they will be your men, your spears. They will fight for you and no one else.”

  “Enough!” Sigeberht slammed his cup down on the table, sloshing mead over the rim. His face was taut with fury, his grey eyes hard flecks of iron. “That is the last time you speak of this Aidan of Connacht – ever. You forget your place. I gave you the rank of thegn and I can take it away from you just as easily. Never forget it!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The summer, one of the fairest that folk could remember, slowly drew to a close and autumn gathered Beodricesworth in its chill embrace. Crisp frosts carpeted the ground in the mornings and the trees were ablaze with shades of red, orange and gold. Leaves softly fell to the ground like molten snowflakes and an ever-present tang of wood-smoke laced the air.

  It was a time of great industry for Freya. The store house had to be filled before Winterfylleth: the celebration that marked the first full-moon of winter. She had to salt and dry the meat, make cheeses and oversee the stocking of the larder. Sacks of barley and rye had arrived from Rendlaesham, along with bunches of onions and sacks of apples. The fields behind Beodricesworth yielded many carrots and turnips, and Freya hoped there would be enough produce to see them through the long winter.

  Freya and Hereric worked tirelessly from dawn till dusk, preparing the winter store. Sigeberht’s warriors also assisted with filling the store house. Aidan led his men out every day to hunt for rabbits, boar and deer. Upon their return, they did much of the skinning, gutting and hanging of the meat. Freya often saw Aldwulf hard at work out in the fields, helping the peasants harvest the vegetables and tend to the soil.

  During all this industry, Sigeberht dedicated himself wholly to his new charges. Dressed in an ankle-length, un-dyed, woolen tunic, girded at the waist, Sigeberht no longer cut a kingly figure. Freya had been used to the king striding about, wearing black leather breeches, silk-edged tunics and gleaming brooches, with a fine fur cloak billowing out behind him. Like Felix, he had cut his hair in a tonsure; shaving the hair from the crown of his head while the rest remained uncut. According to Felix, the tonsure was a way for a new monk to demonstrate his renunciation of all his worldly possessions and needs. Freya could not get used to the sight of her king, in his long tunic, crudely sewn leather boots and shaved crown.

  Strangely, Sigeberht had never appeared happier.

  The four lads: Edwin, Osfrid, Paeda and Sebbi had settled into their new life well enough. They rose at daybreak and accompanied Sigeberht and Felix into the back of the hall. There they pored over heavy books that had been bound on boards. The books had parchment pages and had been clamped with brass clasps and leather straps. The boys were also learning their Latin letters; a process that appeared to test Felix’s patience.

  One morning, Freya had entered the monastic section of the hall to replace some candles, and found the boys bent over scraps of parchment with quills clasped in their fists. The look of intens
e concentration on their faces made Freya smile. Sigeberht and Felix looked on over the boys’ shoulders as they wrote. Felix’s face was twisted in a perpetual scowl as he barked instructions. In contrast, Sigeberht spoke in soft tones with the boys.

  Upon hearing Freya’s approach, Felix looked up from checking Edwin’s writing. His scowl deepened and his cheeks flushed.

  “What are you doing in here girl?”

  “I’ve brought the candles that Lord Sigeberht asked for,” Freya replied with a tight smile. “Shall I light them?”

  Felix grunted and turned his attention back to Edwin’s letters.

  “Make sure you take the stubs of the old candles away with you,” he snapped.

  Freya moved around the room, replacing the old candles with the new and lighting them. Candles were a novelty for Freya; most folk could not afford them. She finished her task and was making her way towards the curtain that shielded the monastic space from the rest of the hall, when Felix’s sharp voice lashed across the room.

  “You took your time girl! This is not a place for women – your presence here sullies sacred ground. From now on, send Hereric here in your place. If I see you inside this space again I will have you whipped!”

  A hot rush of anger swept over Freya. She bit her cheek to stop herself from snarling at the monk. She would like to see the weasel try and whip her. She would rip the whip from his hands and use it on him instead – whatever the consequences. Without deigning to look his way, Freya shoved her way through the curtain and strode back into the hall.

  Hereric, who was turning a row of spit-roasting rabbits over the fire pit, watched Freya storm across the hall towards him.

  “What’s the matter Freya?”

  “It’s Felix,” she replied, attempting to keep her voice low despite the anger boiling within her. “He treats me as if I were some turd he has to step around. I’d love to shove that cross he wears right up his arse!”

  Hereric sniggered at that; like Freya he had no love for Felix of Burgundy, although the monk treated him with slightly less disdain due to the fact he was a male.

  “I’d like to see that,” Hereric grinned. “And I’d wager most of those living under this roof would pay gold to see it too.”

  That afternoon, Freya was sitting outside the hall mending one of the boy’s tunics, when Edwin, son of Bercthun, approached her.

  The boys were assigned chores every afternoon, and Edwin had just returned from the fields with an armful of cabbages. He stopped before Freya, his clear blue-eyed gaze meeting hers. The boy had been withdrawn in the first days after his arrival at Beodricesworth, but as the summer slipped into autumn he had become more forthcoming. He appeared to enjoy his studies a little more than his companions and was proving to be a quick and able student. Freya recognized the intelligence in his eyes as her gaze met his.

  “Where do you want these Freya?”

  “Freya, eh?” She smiled in return. “Not many here call you by my given name, I’m surprised you do.”

  “Hereric does,” Edwin replied. The boys had become fast friends since Edwin’s arrival here. “And Aidan does too.”

  Freya felt her cheeks heat up at the mention of Aidan. It was true that he made a point of addressing her by her given name, even though it infuriated Felix. Yet, Freya was glad that Aidan paid the monk no mind. It pleased her to hear him say her name; in more ways than she could express or admit.

  “Yes, but the others don’t,” she reminded him.

  Edwin was silent a moment before he stepped forward and lightly touched the iron collar around Freya’s neck.

  “Do you wear this because you are a theow?”

  Freya nodded. “Doesn’t your father have slaves?”

  Edwin shook his head. “He doesn’t need them. I have four sisters. They and my mother do all the work.”

  Freya smiled gently in response; it was indeed a woman’s lot. Before becoming the king’s slave, she had never appreciated the freedom she and her mother had enjoyed alone in the woods at Woodbridge Haven. There, they had been their own masters. In the hall of an ealdorman or thegn, the women lived to serve their men. It was a different kind of slavery, but slavery nonetheless.

  “You can put the cabbages in the store house Edwin,” she said finally.

  Edwin went off to the store and had just disappeared inside when a knot of horsemen appeared over the hill to the east. Aidan led a group of warriors with the carcasses of two boar hung over one of their horses. He pulled up before Freya and rewarded her with a wide smile. For the first time in months, Freya was reminded of the old Aidan; the cocky man with melting eyes that she had met on the shore.

  “Afternoon sweet Freya,” he announced, swinging down from the saddle and leading his horse up towards the hall while the other warriors led their horses towards the stable.

  “Greetings Aidan.” Freya’s gaze went to the carcasses of the two boar that hung over the back of the horse he led behind his. The boars’ blood dripped onto the earth, staining it dark. “I see this hunting trip was more successful than the last.”

  Aidan stopped before Freya, so close that his shadow fell over her. Freya looked up into his dark blue eyes. As always, his nearness mesmerized her.

  “Yes, it was,” he said softly. The intensity of his gaze made Freya light-headed. He had not looked at her like this since spring – not since Beltaine. “Does it please you?”

  Freya stared back at him, aware that he was deliberately teasing her; he was enjoying the blush that had crept into her cheeks.

  “Aidan,” Freya replied when she had found her voice. “You knew it would please me. However, we both know it’s not my favor you need.”

  Aidan’s smile faded slightly although his gaze still burned into hers. “Of late, your opinion is the only one that matters to me. The others can hang for all I care.” He stepped closer to her then.

  “Winterfylleth is but three nights away. I was wondering if you would accompany me to the bonfire in Saxham?”

  The heat that had been kindling in Freya’s cheeks burst into flame. She tore her gaze away and stared down at her hands. It was a bold question, too bold.

  “I would like that,” she stammered, “but it’s not my… it’s not my decision.”

  Aidan stepped forward and gently took hold of her chin; drawing her face up to look at him. He was smiling, but it was not a smile designed to seduce her. Instead, it was warm and tinged with mischief. “I’m sure we can find a way around that.”

  “Aidan!” Edwin emerged from the store house and ran across the yard towards the warrior, his face alight. “I was wondering when you would be back! Did you kill both those boar yourself?”

  “One of them I did,” Aidan replied stepping back from Freya and ruffling Aidan’s blond hair as the boy skidded to a halt before him. “Do you want to help me string these boar up? They’ll need to be skinned and gutted before nightfall.”

  Edwin nodded eagerly.

  “Come on then, let us leave Freya to her work.”

  Aidan winked at Freya and turned to lead the horses away. Freya saw Edwin’s gaze flick from Aidan to her and back again. Woden, that boy was sharp. He missed nothing.

  Aidan led the horses to where a row of birches grew tall and strong to the right of the hall. There, he showed Edwin how to tie ropes to the hindquarters of each boar and winch them up onto the tree. Like most lads his age, Edwin had taken part in skinning and gutting beasts before, so Aidan got him to bleed the boars from the neck into a wooden pail. Pig blood was precious and Freya would be able to make blood sausage with it later.

  Freya. What spell had the girl woven upon him? He could not stop thinking about her of late. They lived in much closer quarters here at Beodricesworth than they had at Rendlaesham; here they were far more part of each other’s life. She slept just yards from him every night on the floor. He had chosen to sleep away from the warmth of the fire pit, just to lie closer to her. It had become a sweet torture; one that had awakened his sen
ses and slowly drawn him out of the misery of the past summer.

  Aidan had just cut down the belly of the boar and was preparing to skin it, when the ground began to tremble. Horses, and many of them, were riding fast towards the hall. Aidan whipped around and saw a dark wave of men and horses, with spears bristling against the horizon, crest the brow of the hill.

  “Edwin, stay here,” he ordered the boy. “Keep out of sight.”

  With that, Aidan strode back to the hall, his hunting knife in hand, to greet the warriors.

  The riders thundered into the yard and pulled up sharply. Aidan saw Freya cast her sewing aside and stand up to greet them. Not for the first time, he was struck by her presence, her proud stance. Unarmed she stood firm and raised her chin to look the warriors in the eye. As Aidan reached her, he saw the color drain from her face and her expression harden. He followed her gaze to its source and knew why she had reacted so.

  The man leading these warriors was Ecgric of Exning. Aidan recognized many of the faces, one of which was Oeric. The youth looked far less cocky than the last time he had seen him.

  “Milord,” Freya greeted him coldly. “Why are you…?”

  “Silence slut!” Ecgric snarled. “Speak another word to me and I’ll take my fist to you. Go and get the king!”

  Freya’s gaze narrowed and Aidan could see her fury at being spoken to thus. Nonetheless, she wisely decided to do as she was bid. Anyone could see that Ecgric was in a vile temper.

  When Freya disappeared inside the hall, to interrupt Sigeberht from his afternoon prayers, Ecgric’s gimlet gaze moved to Aidan.

  “Enjoying it here are you?” Aidan felt Ecgric’s gaze slide over him. “I always thought you were far more suited to the life of a peasant than retainer to a king.”

  “And I always thought you more suited to emptying privies than leading armies,” Aidan replied. “A man who lives outside his limitations is a fool indeed.”