by Jayne Castel
Ecgric’s face darkened. His brows drew together and his neat beard seemed to grow to a point – giving him a vaguely demonic appearance.
“Foreign cur,” he growled. “I’ll cut your tongue out by the roots one day.”
“Why not now?” Aidan felt a red haze settle upon him as he casually raised the blood-stained hunting knife he carried. “Go on and try.”
Ecgric’s hand strayed to the pommel of his sword, but froze there when a figure emerged from the hall.
The Eager’s gaze fastened on Sigeberht. In the two moon cycles since he had left Rendlaesham, the king had undergone a huge transformation. Gone were the kingly robes, jeweled brooches and iron crown; the man before him truly was Sigeberht the Righteous: a clean-shaven man with a gentle face, barefoot and wearing a long wool tunic.
“Milord?” Ecgric queried. “‘Tis you?”
“It is,” Sigeberht replied with a smile. “Do you find me so altered Ecgric?”
Ecgric nodded wordlessly, his gaze riveted upon the man who had elevated him to the position of ruler, and then abandoned him in the role. Looking upon Ecgric the Eager, Aidan could see signs of strain. He had lost weight and looked gaunt. His eyes were hollowed from stress and there were deep grooves either side of his mouth that had not been there mid-summer.
“What is the reason for your visit?” Sigeberht continued when Ecgric did not speak. “You know I left the kingdom entirely your responsibility. I am content to let you rule without my counsel.”
“And I would have been glad to continue doing so,” Ecgric replied, eventually finding his voice. “However, war is now upon us milord.”
Silence fell in the yard. Moments passed and Aidan could hear the sounds of the late afternoon around him: the bleating of a goat in the distance, the cluck of chickens, the babbling of the Lark River and the laughter of children helping their parents in the fields behind the hall. It was a peaceful, autumn afternoon; it seemed absurd that war was upon them.
“Penda has gathered a sizeable fyrd at our western border. He will make for Rendlaesham and his path will take him straight through this valley. I have called as many men as I could. You now have a fyrd of three thousand spears. Yet I fear that Penda’s army is nearly double that.”
Ecgric paused and the silence stretched on. When Sigeberht made no comment, Ecgric continued.
“We will meet the Mercians on the fields just outside Barrow. Bercthun of Barrow has joined us, as has your cousin, Annan. Penda’s army is rumored to begin its march tomorrow at daybreak. It will take them four days to reach Barrow Fields. We must be ready for them when they arrive.”
Again, Sigeberht did not respond. Two patches of red appeared on Ecgric’s cheeks. He had expected some comment from the king by now, not a vacant expression.
“Milord,” he began again, his voice rising slightly. “Your army awaits you. They will not fight without their king. You must come with me now to Barrow and plan for war.”
“I think not,” Sigeberht replied mildly. “When I handed my crown to you, I renounced all my kingly responsibilities. If war must come to this kingdom, you must lead the East Angles into battle. I am a man of peace now. I will never raise a sword against another man again.”
Hearing Sigeberht’s words, Aidan felt ill. Sigeberht did not seem to understand. Ecgric had not come here to ask him to lead his fyrd, he had come here to tell him.
“You are our king,” Ecgric ground out, his face now the color of raw meat. “I have ruled in your stead; I have done all you asked but your spears, swords, axes, and the shield wall – they will only fight for you. You were crowned King of the East Angles, not me.”
Sigeberht shook his head, his expression closed and stubborn. “I will not fight, that is my final word.”
Ecgric leaned forward in the saddle. Aidan could almost taste his rage and his desire to draw Æthelfrith’s Bane and strike Sigeberht down with it. Despite that he found Ecgric despicable, Aidan felt a stab of pity for him. He had been burdened with a terrible responsibility. No wonder Oeric looked pained. Following a king was one thing; following him to war was another. The kingdom was on the verge of falling and Sigeberht thought praying to his god was of greater importance. Aidan’s palm itched to slap some sense into the king.
“So be it, but hear my final word,” Ecgric hissed. “You will fight. You will lead your army. When the Mercians approach I will come for you and I will drag you kicking and screaming onto the battlefield if I have to. You shall lead your men.”
With that, Ecgric gathered his reins and prepared to ride off.
“Ecgric!” Aidan stepped forward into Ecgric’s line of sight. The warrior’s gaze was still riveted on Sigeberht so it was the only way to gain his attention.
“There are twenty of us here who will fight,” Aidan told him. “Send word and we will come.”
Ecgric nodded curtly, the closest Aidan would ever receive to thanks, before he wheeled his horse away and led his warriors away from Beodricesworth. The ground shook and it was a while before the thundering of hooves faded.
Aidan turned back to Sigeberht and attempted to meet his gaze. Yet, the king ignored him; his thoughts having turned inward. Without another word, Sigeberht turned and went back inside the hall to resume his prayers, leaving Aidan to wonder if the king had lost both his wits and his courage.
Chapter Seventeen
The eve of Winterfylleth arrived. It had been a crisp, bright day and the sun was setting to the west in a blaze of red and gold when Freya hurried into the hall to dish up the evening meal of pottage and griddle bread.
As usual, the evening meal was a subdued affair. Ever since news of the approaching Mercian army had spread through Beodricesworth like wildfire, folk wore startled, frightened expressions and jumped at shadows. If Ecgric’s warning was true, then the army would arrive within a day.
Freya ladled pottage into wooden bowls and passed them to Hereric who served SIgeberht and Felix first. As she worked, Freya cast a watchful eye over Sigeberht. Unlike Felix, who had looked a bit pale and tense ever since the news of Penda and his great fyrd, Sigeberht appeared calm, verging on serene.
“Let us pray this eve,” Sigeberht said to Felix. “Let us pray for the souls of Penda and his blood-thirsty horde. May the lord show them the right path; the path of peace.”
Felix nodded, although Freya noticed his mouth had pursed, as if he was chewing on something unpleasant.
Freya passed Edwin a bowl of pottage and upon seeing his worried face she cast a warm smile in his direction. Of course, Edwin and the other boys had been distraught at the news of the approaching army. Barrow was their home and all their male kin would join the East Anglian army. Barrow Fields were just a short distance from Edwin’s home. Freya knew he worried for his mother and his sisters should the battle go ill.
You should worry for us all if the battle goes ill, Freya thought with a chill. For once he burns Barrow, Penda will march straight here and do the same.
After everyone had finished eating, Freya began clearing away the wooden bowls and clay cups. Sigeberht and Felix disappeared behind the curtain to spend the evening at prayers while Edwin and the other boys sat near the fire pit and practiced their spoken Latin together, as they did every evening. Some warriors remained indoors, playing at knucklebones or drinking, while others drifted off. Aidan was one of these.
Freya’s stomach knotted when she saw him make for the door. It was Winterfylleth, Winter Full Moon, and Aidan had promised to take her to Saxham to see the fires.
Maybe he has forgotten. She could not blame him; the news of coming war had thrown them all into upheaval.
Yet, Aidan paused in the doorway and glanced back at Freya. His gaze met hers and he smiled. Freya’s stomach leaped. He had remembered; he would wait outside for her until she managed to slip away.
Freya busied herself with washing the bowls and cups in a pail of waiter before she wiped down the tables. Then, she picked up the pail as if she intended to take i
t outside to empty it, and made her way casually towards the door.
No one stirred or looked her way as she stepped outside.
Night had fallen. Freya’s breath steamed before her in the cool air and she glanced up at the blanket of stars overhead. The night was still young; the full-moon had not yet risen.
“Freya.” A man’s voice hailed her as she walked across the yard. She stopped and peered into the darkness. She could just make out the outline of a man on horseback standing in the shadow of the store room.
“I was worried you’d not be able to get away,” Aidan said as she approached. “Here, I brought you a woolen shawl. It’s cold this eve.”
“Thank you,” Freya murmured, wrapping the shawl about her shoulders. She wore a sleeveless shift and the night air had a bite to it.
“Here, climb up in front of me.” Aidan reached down to her. Freya took his hand; it was cool and strong in her grasp. She placed her foot on top of his and vaulted up so that she sat side-saddle in front of him. Her balance was precarious in this position, but she could not sit astride without hitching up her skirts. Considering the strong attraction between them, Freya thought such an act would be unwise.
Unspeaking, Aidan put one arm around Freya’s waist, to steady her, while keeping hold of the reins with his opposite hand. He urged his horse forward and they slipped away from the hall.
Freya waited until Beodricesworth lay behind them before she spoke again. She turned her head towards Aidan, but like the night of Beltaine, his face was cast in shadow.
“I hope the others don’t notice my absence.”
“Even if they do, what does it matter?” Aidan replied. “Sigeberht has more to worry about these days than the whereabouts of his theow. You have had a hard year Freya; I wanted to give you an evening away from it all. Once the Mercians arrive I won’t have another chance.”
“It’s true then that his fyrd is much bigger than ours?”
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
“And Sigeberht won’t fight?”
“He will. He doesn’t want to, but he will.”
“Will you fight?” Freya cursed the darkness for she wanted to see Aidan’s face then; she wanted to see the expression in his eyes and know the truth of matters.
“I will,” he replied quietly. “I must.”
Saxham was a short ride from Beodricesworth but Aidan did not hurry. By the time they reached the edge of the village, a huge glowing moon was rising over the treetops. It flooded the world in silver light and Freya could now see the outline of Aidan’s face.
They dismounted at the edge of the village and Aidan tied his horse to a tree. Then, unspeaking, they made their way towards the heart of Saxham – the village green.
Saxham was a small hamlet – around half the size of Barrow – but it glowed brightly in the darkness on this, the first full-moon of winter. Fires and torches burned everywhere, inside and outside the squat wattle and daub hovels that filled a wide clearing. As she walked, Freya peered inside open doorways and saw jugs of milk, mead and wine placed on the edge of the fire pits, alongside a spread of food: pies, cakes and breads. On this night, the villagers left their doors unlocked to allow the dead to enter. Torches had been placed at many open doorways guiding in the good spirits and deterring the evil ones.
A great bonfire burned in the center of Saxham; hungry tongues of flame licking up at the darkness. It was a time of declining sun, and the villagers had lit a bonfire to encourage it back. Blotmonath, Blood month, was almost upon them. Tomorrow the villagers would perform rites for Hela – the Underworld Goddess who raised the dead – and the day after that Woden – father of the gods – would ride his eight-legged horse through the mortal world.
Freya and Aidan joined the folk who clustered around the edge of the bonfire and gratefully received wooden cups of hot, spiced wine. Wrapping her chilled fingers around the cup, Freya enjoyed the warmth of the fire caressing her face and was reminded that Winterfylleth was a time when everyone moved indoors, into the relative warmth, and outdoor activities ceased for the long winter. Darkness was about to return and nature would soon go to ground. Despite this, Freya loved Winterfylleth. Joining this celebration reminded Freya of other, happier times.
“You look deep in thought,” Aidan observed, passing Freya a slice of hot apple tart, sweetened with honey.
Freya smiled and took a bite of the tart. Its sweet tang made her sigh with pleasure. She rarely ate food like this these days.
“I was just remembering other Winterfylleth eves,” she said wistfully. “When my father was alive.”
“When did he die?” Aidan asked gently, the firelight dancing in his eyes as he watched her.
“Only five years ago – at the Battle of Uffid Heath – and yet it seems much longer than that.”
“He would have fought with King Raedwald.” Aidan’s voice was tinged with awe. “The greatest king this land has ever known. I would have liked to have met him.”
Freya nodded, breaking eye contact with him and looking into the flames. “He was a great king,” she admitted. “My father would have followed him anywhere.”
Freya did not add that her mother had nursed resentment against Raedwald ever since her husband’s death, or that she had shared her mother’s feelings. It all seemed so petty now. Since her freedom had been taken away from her, Freya now understood that Raedwald had not compelled her father to fight and die for him on Uffid Heath. Aelli of Gipeswic had lived and died a free man. These days she understood how precious that was.
“I remember well the year my father died,” Freya replied as memories of the past flooded over her. “The king’s daughter, Raedwyn, fell out of favor when she fell in love with her father’s slave – the son of his sworn enemy.”
“That must have been Caelin, son of Ceolwulf the Exiled. Raedwald killed Ceolwulf upon Uffid Heath and enslaved his son. I have heard the story. It has become legend in Rendlaesham. I hear it ended well for the lovers though.”
Freya cast Aidan a sidelong glance, not sure whether he was teasing her or not.
“Yes it did. Raedwald tried to marry his daughter, Raedwyn, to Eafa of Mercia. It was a terrible mistake, for after the wedding, Eafa sought to slay Raedwald in the Golden Hall and take the kingdom for the Mercians. He stabbed the king and would have slit his throat if Caelin had not stopped him. It was Raedwyn who slew Eafa, but the king died of his injuries anyway. The new king, Eorpwald, gave Caelin his freedom and his sister the right to choose her future. She chose love.”
“See, sometimes things do end well,” Aidan replied with a smile. “Slaves do gain their freedom. Surely I am proof of that also.”
Freya took a sip of mulled wine and felt its warmth seep down through her body. “Truthfully, I’ve made peace with my enslavement for the moment.” Freya reached up with her free hand and touched the iron collar about her neck. “There are worse lives than this one. My lot improved the moment we left Rendlaesham and Ecgric behind. Beneath his stern exterior, Sigeberht is a kind man; and Edwin and the others are sweet boys. My daily toil is not as back-breaking as it was. My fate would have been a lot worse if Ricberht still ruled.”
Aidan held her gaze, respect glittering in his eyes.
“You are quite a woman Freya,” he murmured. “I only wish I could keep you safe from what is to come.”
Silence fell between them then as their thoughts returned to the approaching Mercian fyrd.
“Eafa the Merciful was Penda’s elder brother,” Aidan mused, “and by all accounts the Mercian King is as cold and ruthless as his dead sibling. I hear that he wishes to make this kingdom bow to his. Without a charismatic leader like Raedwald, I fear it might happen.”
“Why do you stay?” Freya asked suddenly. “You owe this land nothing. Why not return to Gaul and go back to your old life. I’d rather you did that than died for us.”
Aidan smiled then, a sad smile with a trace of bitterness around the edges.
“Ah, if only
there was something to go back to. Sigeberht was my life in Gaul – it’s no more my home that anywhere else. I wanted to make a life for myself here Freya. I wanted Sigeberht to grant me land so that I could have my own hall, farm the land and raise a family. Unfortunately Sigeberht was not cut out to be a king. He does not reward loyalty and he does not want the responsibility of ruling a kingdom. If he had given me some land I would have asked for nothing else save to meet a woman like you, sweet Freya, and make her my wife.”
Freya stared back at Aidan. His admission felt as if someone had just punched her in the stomach. There was no teasing in his gaze, just a quiet, sure intensity.
She realized with a jolt that he was telling the truth. If she had been free, he would have chosen her for his own.
Tears stung Freya’s eyes and she hurriedly looked away so that Aidan could not see them. The fire’s heat scalded her face and helped her collect herself. When she looked back at Aidan, she took a deep, trembling breath and fought the mountain’s weight of regret and sadness that threatened to crush her.
“I would have liked that,” she said quietly, meeting his gaze.
***
The night stretched on and the moon rose high into the heavens. Eventually, their bellies full of sweet treats and spiced wine, Aidan and Freya reluctantly moved away from the dying bonfire and made their way towards the horse that awaited them on the outskirts of Saxham.
“Let us walk rather than ride,” Freya suggested. “I am in no hurry to return to Beodricesworth. I’d like to feel like a free woman for a while longer.”
“Very well,” Aidan replied, leading his horse forward as Freya fell into step beside him. “I too am not in a hurry to go back.”
The full moon shone so bright that the woodland around them was clearly visible. Silver light bathed the ground, which crunched slightly underfoot; a frost was forming. They walked in silence for a short while before Aidan wordlessly reached out and took Freya’s hand. Her breath stopped as he gently entwined his fingers with hers. Her heart started to pound when he stroked the center of her palm with his thumb. She suddenly felt both shivery and hot at the same time. Who would have thought her hand could contain such sensation.
