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

by Jayne Castel

  “I wouldn’t be here now if you hadn’t already done that,” Aidan gave Freya a smile that made her insides melt.

  “Let’s take a look at you,” Cwen bustled up and handed Freya her basket of herbs and potions. “Even battered and bruised you’re a handsome one. No wonder my daughter cannot take her eyes off you.”

  “Mōder!”

  “What?” Cwen replied without a hint of embarrassment. “I may be getting old, but I’m not blind.”

  Cwen examined Aidan’s chest and shoulder wounds while Freya looked on intensely. “These are healing well,” Cwen reported, “although the cut on his chest should have been stitched.”

  “There was no time for that,” Freya replied quietly.

  Cwen cast her daughter a questioning glance before checking the arrow wounds. “You cleaned these well. There is no festering.”

  Aidan caught Freya’s glance then and winked.

  “It seems you’re well enough to flirt with my daughter. You can’t be in too bad a shape after all,” Cwen observed tartly.

  “It’s my head that hurts the most,” Aidan admitted.

  Cwen examined the wound and frowned when she gently probed the scabbed wound with her fingertips and Aidan yelped in pain.

  “This came close to splitting your head open,” she told him. “The wound needs a poultice. I’m afraid you’re going to have sore head for a while yet, but it should come right eventually.”

  Freya felt giddy with relief at this news.

  “Really mōder? He will be alright?”

  Cwen glanced from Aidan to Freya and gave a knowing smile. “Yes he will.”

  Epilogue

  Six months later…

  “Freya, it’s done! He’s finished it. Go and see!”

  Freya straightened up from retrieving the last warm egg from the hen house and glanced over at where Hereric was almost hopping up and down with excitement at the foot of the garden.

  “He can’t have finished it yet. He still had the door to put on and a wall to finish this morning.”

  “He has. Go and see!”

  “Very well.” Freya approached the boy, ruffled his hair and handed him the basket of eggs. “Here, take these to Cwen. If you help her with the baking, she might cook you some eggs.”

  Freya made her way out from behind her mother’s cottage and down the path to the edge of the clearing. There, another, newer, dwelling stood basking in the noon sun. Aidan had forbidden her from visiting him during the final stages of building, having insisted that it should be a surprise.

  This was their new home. Tomorrow, they would have their handfast ceremony in nearby Bawdsey. From tomorrow, they would live in this cottage as man and wife.

  As Freya approached the cottage, Aidan stepped out of the entrance.

  The sight of him never failed to make Freya’s heart race. His short hair was starting to grow out, and it flopped in a black wave over one eye. He was dressed lightly today, as it was one of the first warm days of spring, in light breeches and a sleeveless tunic belted at the waist. Upon catching sight of her approaching, Aidan leaned lazily against the doorframe and greeted her with a smile.

  “I hear from Hereric that you’re done here.” Freya stopped a few yards away and regarded him skeptically. “Was that one of his exaggerations, or another one of your boasts?”

  Aidan laughed. “Neither. It’s done. Would you like me to carry you across the threshold milady?”

  Freya regarded him archly. “I’m no lady. I think I’m capable of walking through a doorway myself.”

  Aidan approached her, a wicked gleam in his eye. “What if I insist on carrying you?”

  Freya tried to dart past him, but Aidan was too quick. He grabbed her and scooped her up in his arms. Then, ignoring her protests, he carried her down the path and across the threshold.

  Freya’s half-hearted objections died on her lips when she saw inside.

  A fire burned in the fire pit at the heart of the dwelling, illuminating the clean and tidy space. He had already furnished it for her, with clean rush-matting on the floor, a small work table near the door, and hand-carved stools around the fire. There was a mountain of furs at the far end of the room, partially shielded from view by a curtain of rabbit-skins sewn together. It was a cozy, homely space. Freya could scarcely believe that it was hers.

  “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, her eyes brimming with tears. “You’ve worked so hard Aidan – it’s perfect.”

  Wordlessly, Aidan set her down on the floor and pulled her into his arms. His kiss was urgent and Freya responded in kind, twining her arms about his neck and pressing her body along the length of his. Their time together since coming to live with Cwen had always been stolen. Aidan’s head had taken a long time to heal, and they had been confined to the cottage for long periods over a bitter winter that had seemed to drag endlessly. Once spring arrived they had been able to make love for the first time in the woods, but there was never any time to linger over it, or to lie naked for hours afterwards.

  Breaking away from his kiss and gasping for breath, Freya glanced over at the furs and felt heat seep through her body. It was their bed and they would be able to spend every night there from tomorrow on.

  As if reading her thoughts, Aidan chuckled. “I’m tempted to try out those furs now,” he whispered in her ear, “just to make sure they’re comfortable for our wedding night.”

  “You’ll have to wait till then,” Freya replied with a grin. “I’ve got honey-seed cakes to bake for tomorrow and mōder wants to make the final touches to my dress.”

  “I prefer you naked,” Aidan replied, his eyes dark with passion. “The cakes and the dress can wait.” He pulled the door shut and bolted it. “But this can’t.”

  With that, Aidan scooped Freya back into his arms and carried her over to the furs.

  This time she did not protest.

  --

  Loved NIGHTFALL TILL DAYBREAK and want more?

  Buy Book #3 in the Kingdom of the East Angles series: THE DEEPENING NIGHT.

  --

  Read the Prologue of THE DEEPENING NIGHT.

  Prologue

  The Funeral

  Tamworth, the Kingdom of Mercia – Britannia

  Spring 630 A.D.

  The croak of ravens echoed through the morning air. Their cries followed Saewara through the curling mist, mocking her. There was not a breath of wind this morning; the shrouded hillside sat in a world of its own, a lonely island in a milky sea.

  Head hung low, so that others could not see her face, Saewara followed the mourners up to the barrow where Egfrid would be entombed alongside his forefathers. Behind her, she could hear the quiet sobbing of his mother, who had been inconsolable ever since hearing the news of her eldest son’s death.

  Egfrid had been one of the king’s bravest and most formidable warriors. His death, in a border skirmish against a band of Celts just three days earlier, had shocked them all.

  The dead man lay upon a litter; his face chalk-white, his arms folded over his chest. They had dressed him in his finest clothes: a fur cloak, a fine royal blue tunic and an embossed leather breastplate. Gold rings crowded his muscular biceps, each one won for his valor and presented after battle. His long brown hair had been brushed and tied back against his nape.

  Egfrid’s wounds had been terrible; he had been slit open from sternum to bowel. It had taken the women most of the night to prepare him for burial, binding up his wounds so that he could be dressed in his finery. In the end, they had succeeded in creating the illusion that the warrior had come to a peaceful end. To look at him now, no one would have guessed at the deep lacerations beneath his clothing.

  The mourners climbed the last stretch before the barrow. Egfrid’s burial place marked the end of a line of mounds where Mercian kings and nobility lay. The last king to be buried here had been Cearl, nearly five years earlier. The last peaceful King of Mercia, he had ruled without incident for nearly two decades, before finally succumbing t
o illness.

  Saewara halted before the entrance to the barrow, watching as her husband’s litter was lowered before it. Beyond, the shadows loomed. Darkness stretched out toward Egfrid the Strong, beckoning him toward the afterlife.

  As his wife, Saewara was expected to sing the lament for his death. Steeling herself, she squared her shoulders and lifted her head, filling her lungs with cool, damp air. Then she sang, her voice lifting above the mourners and drifting through the encircling mist.

  Egfrid the Strong

  What great loss we suffer

  A warrior, a husband, a son

  That went away, this also may

  Sorry and longing are ours

  Exile in the cold winter

  For he no longer serves his lord

  That went away, this also may

  It is the will of fate

  That shapes all our lives

  Grief, loss and suffering

  That went away, this also may

  Saewara’s voice trailed off, while around her the eyes of many present brimmed with tears at the lament’s haunting beauty. Saewara cast her eyes down once more as Egfrid’s brothers slid his body inside the barrow and sealed the entrance.

  The mourners drifted away from the barrow, and retraced their steps down the slope. Saewara lingered on the knoll for a few moments longer, before following them. The mist was even thicker now. It created a milky shroud around the mourners, blocking the outline of the Great Tower that rose from a grassy hill to the south. Saewara walked slowly, lost in her thoughts.

  She did not notice a tall figure fall into step next to her.

  “You played your part beautifully, Saewara – ever the actress.”

  Saewara started, and looked up at her brother’s cruelly handsome face in surprise.

  He knew her grief was feigned. She had thought Penda had gone ahead. Yet, instead he had lingered behind to speak to her.

  In the pale morning light, Penda was a striking sight. He wore a magnificent black fur cloak, clasped to his broad shoulders with gleaming amber broaches. Despite the iron crown on his head – a plain circlet with a garnet at its center – he dressed like the warrior he was. His heavy sword swung at his side as he walked, and his tall, muscular frame was encased in leather armor. His blond hair, so pale it was almost white, hung in a smooth curtain over his shoulders.

  Not for the first time, Saewara wondered at how different they were. Her brother was as tall, cold and pale as a mountain summit; in contrast to Saewara’s dark hair, small frame and fiery disposition. She was so short that the crown of her head barely reached the center of his chest. Their eldest brother, Eafa, who had died in East Anglia a few years earlier, had spent years taunting Saewara about her looks – even going as far as to say that their mother must have lain with a Celt savage to beget her, for she could not be of the same blood as Penda and him.

  “You enjoyed the lament then, brother?” she asked coolly, preferring to respond to Penda’s barbed comment with a question.

  “Yes, you have an enchanting voice.”

  Saewara did not reply. She and Penda rarely spoke these days, and he did not usually seek her out unless he had some purpose. She guessed that this was also the case now. As such, she waited for him to speak again.

  “You do not mourn him.”

  It was a statement rather than a question.

  “No,” she replied quietly. “Do you blame me?”

  Penda shrugged. “I care not what goes on between man and wife. It was a good match – or it would have been if you had given him a son.”

  Saewara looked away, slowing her step so that the mourners before her drew ahead. She did not want her mother-in-law eavesdropping on their conversation.

  “We tried, but my womb never quickened.”

  “You are barren.”

  Saewara bristled. “He had other women, you know that. None of the others bore his child either.”

  “If a marriage does not produce children ‘tis the woman’s fault, not the man’s,” Penda replied with a snarl in his voice.

  Saewara clenched her jaw and bit back an angry reply. She knew she should mind her tongue. Many thought her husband’s ready fists would have taught her meekness over the past few years. Indeed, it had made her wary of men; yet, Egfrid’s violence only served to make the rage within her grow.

  Soon, all of this will not matter, she consoled herself. Soon you will be free of this place and all the vile, scheming people who live here.

  “Yes, brother,” she managed finally. “You are right. I am barren and no good as a wife. In a few days, I will leave here and go to Bonehill, where I will take my vows. There, I will be out of your life, and no longer a thorn in your side.”

  “Bonehill?” Penda queried coolly. “I think not, dear sister. Barren or not, it would be a waste to send you off to a nunnery for the rest of your days.”

  “Hwaet?”

  Saewara lost her tightly won control for a moment. She stopped and swiveled toward her brother, her gaze sweeping up to meet his. “But there’s no point in marrying me to anyone else!”

  “You are of royal blood,” Penda reminded her with a cruel smile, locking her arm in his and forcing her to continue walking. “And too valuable to cast aside so young. I have plans for you.”

  Saewara walked on, her heart thumping against her ribs. She could not believe she was hearing this from Penda. After the sacrifice she had made for him – marrying a man all knew to be a brute – and suffering greatly as a result, this was the ultimate betrayal. She knew that Penda held no love for her – she imagined him incapable of truly loving anyone – but now he appeared to be exacting some kind of twisted vengeance upon her.

  “Who is it?” she gasped finally. “What animal will you marry me to this time?”

  “Use that tone with me again Saewara and I will strike you to the ground,” Penda replied, flatly, “sister or not.”

  Saewara shivered. Having seen what her brother was capable of, she knew he would do as he threatened.

  They walked in silence for a short distance before the king spoke once more.

  “You will marry Annan of the East Angles,” Penda informed her dispassionately. “Annan has ‘bent the knee’ to Mercia and I need to ensure that he will continue to do as he is told. You will play a role in uniting our two kingdoms in readiness for the day I take East Anglia for our own.”

  Saewara was shocked into silence.

  This was worse than she had ever anticipated. Her brief glimpse at freedom, at a life away from being a pawn in a man’s world, dissolved like smoke before her eyes. Not only would her brother barter her like a fattened sow at market, but he would give her to his enemy to further his political ambitions, without a thought to her wishes.

  She dipped her head, letting her cowl fall over her face and block out the world.

  Tears flowed, hot and bitter, down her cheeks.

  Buy Book #3 in the Kingdom of the East Angles series: THE DEEPENING NIGHT.

  Historical note from the author

  Although the lovers in Nightfall till Daybreak, Freya and Aidan, are purely figments of my imagination (even if I'd like to think they really did exist), many characters within this novel are based on real historical figures. All of the following 'real people' play an important role in the novel: King Sigeberht; his co-ruler, Ecgric; the monks, Felix of Burgundy and Botulf of Iken; Sigeberht's step-cousin Annan; and the bloodthirsty Mercian King, Penda.

  Of course, in the name of telling a good story I have stretched a few facts, embellished events and shortened timelines. Botulf set up his monastery at Iken a few decades later than in this story and Sigeberht actually ruled from 629-634 A.D.; but for the purposes of my tale I pack his six-year reign into one eventful year.

  Nightfall till Daybreak is based around Sigeberht's actual life; in fact it was his story that gave me my first inspiration for this novel. The lovers came later – it was Sigeberht who initially caught my attention.

  Sigeberht
gets a mention in Dark Under the Cover of Night, the first novel in my Kingdom of the East Angles series. He was King Raedwald's stepson, who the king had exiled to Gaul when Sigeberht was still a youth, fearing that the young man might try to claim the throne over one of Raedwald's own sons. Sigeberht lived in Gaul for many years. Nightfall till Daybreak begins after the murder of Sigeberht's step-brother, Eorpwald, the current King of the East Angles. The 'usurper', Ricberht, had taken the throne and Sigeberht sailed across the water to Britannia, to take it back for his family.

  Sigeberht killed Ricberht, took back Rendlaesham and was crowned. However, Sigeberht's new life did not sit well with him. In Gaul, he had dedicated himself to religious studies and he eventually left Rendlaesham to set up a monastery and Beodricesworth (now Bury St. Edmunds). He left a relatively unknown individual – Ecgric – to rule in his stead. Sigeberht eventually abdicated, took his vows and dedicated himself to teaching young boys how to read and write Latin – but, unfortunately, he could not throw aside his responsibilities so easily. When the Mercians, led by King Penda, attacked East Anglia, Sigeberht was dragged from his monastery and onto the battlefield. He refused to bear arms and went into battle carrying only a staff. The rest, as they say, is history...

  Many years later, Sigeberht was sainted. His feast day is on 29 October.

  In all my novels set in the Anglo-Saxon period, I enjoy using actual historical events and figures to drive the story forward. Although these are romances, with the love story as the enduring theme, there is something exciting about reliving (or rewriting) history. This period of British history is shadowy and not particularly well documented. The main source for this period came from Bede's Ecclesiastical History of the English People, which was not completed until the 730s, and was written from a religious perspective – however, I found this lack of detail freeing rather than constricting. It allowed me to really bring Anglo-Saxon England to life using my own knowledge of how people actually lived, and the beliefs that drove their lives forward.