by Jayne Castel
To Annan’s fury, his brother now wore a cocky smile. “I’m sure I can convince her to marry me, instead of you,” he said confidently, “after all, if she returns to Bebbanburg, the Northumbrian King may marry her to some ageing ealdorman. I’m a much better choice.”
“You astound me.” Annan shook his head, still choking down rage. “Since when did you get so full of yourself?”
“So do you give your permission?”
“Thunor’s hammer – you’re like a dog with a bone!”
“I need to know.”
Annan cursed and kicked the helmet he had been about to pick up across the bower. It bounced off the tapestry-covered wall with a dull thud.
“Nithhogg take you! She was mine. Now I’m going to be saddled with some Mercian bitch.”
“You’re marrying this widow anyway,” Aethelhere responded stubbornly. “What does it matter?”
“It matters because if I can’t have her, I don’t see why you should!” Annan roared.
Aethelhere stared back, waiting for his answer.
“Very well,” Annan snarled, “you can have her – if she’ll have you!”
“Thank you, Annan.”
The relief in Aethelhere’s voice made jealousy twist Annan’s stomach. Hereswith was a woman that men, even brothers, could easily become enemies over.
“I wouldn’t be so smug,” Annan continued, unable to stop himself from ruining his brother’s victory. “The King of Northumbria might have something to say about your match – he wanted his niece wedded to the King of the East Angles, not his brother.”
“Then, I won’t give him the chance to interfere,” Aethelhere countered, as cocksure as ever, “If Hereswith says ‘yes’, I’ll wed her before he has time to protest.”
“Do what you want, you will anyway.” Annan turned his back on Aethelhere then. Just when he thought his life could not get any bleaker, his brother had to go and kick him in the guts. “Only, make sure you’re wedded by the time I return, I won’t be attending your handfasting.”
***
Annan made his way down the steps from his bower, and across the Great Hall toward the entrance. Outside, a group of his most loyal warriors, Saba among them, would be waiting patiently for their king. They should have departed Rendlaesham at dawn but Annan had delayed as much as he was able. Now, Aethelhere’s announcement made him want to get away from the ‘Golden Hall’ as quickly as possible.
It made him never want to return.
Hereswith was there, sitting beside the fire pit at her distaff. He caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye. Even pale and strained, her eyes red-rimmed from weeping, she was beautiful. Her hair flowed in a golden curtain down her slender back as she sat, ramrod straight at her distaff.
Aethelhere would not have had time to approach her as yet.
Annan wondered if she would refuse him; she did seem very upset at the prospect of losing Annan. Part of him, the part that did not see why his brother should be happy when he was not, hoped that she would shun Aethelhere and return north. Annan was not sure he could bear to return here and see Hereswith wed to his brother; although with a long journey ahead of him, he preferred not to dwell on it.
Annan acknowledged Hereswith with a curt nod. The gazes of those who served him, tracked the king as he crossed the floor. It was a relief when he reached the oak doors and stepped outside into the crisp morning air. He was half-way down the steps to the stable yard, when a woman’s voice hailed him.
“Milord!”
Annan recognized the voice instantly. He turned, and found himself but a yard away from Hereswith of Bebbanburg.
“Hereswith,” he said gently. “You should not follow me. There is nothing to say.”
“But I would say ‘goodbye’.” Her voice trembled and her eyes filled with tears. “Were you going to leave without speaking to me?”
“I thought it would be easier this way. I am sorry we cannot be wed,” he replied.
“Can you not refuse Penda?” she asked. The hope in her voice cut him like a freshly sharpened blade.
Annan shook his head.
“It has gone too far for that. I swore an oath to Penda, and I must uphold it. If it were for myself I might not – but I’m responsible for the well-being of this kingdom’s folk. Penda is not a man lightly crossed.”
Anger flared in Hereswith’s blue eyes. “But neither are you! Tell him ‘no’.”
Annan shook his head and gave a wry smile. “Penda and I are very different men. He seeks to rule whereas I had this responsibility thrust upon me. I know how to lead an army and inspire man’s loyalty – but Penda knows how to conquer. As lovely as you are Hereswith, I would not risk my people’s lives for you. Do not ask me to.”
Hereswith’s mouth thinned slightly at that. Suddenly, for an instant, Annan had a glimpse of a woman who was nothing like the sweet maid she appeared to be. There was a core of iron hidden under that beautiful façade. Yet, this did not make Annan want her any less; if anything, her fire stirred him.
In this case, however, this woman was not destined to be his.
“Goodbye, Hereswith,” he said gently. “I wish you well.”
With that, he turned, the heavy cape he wore about his shoulders swinging, and descended the rest of the wooden stairs. In the stable yard below, Saba stood waiting, with a party of twenty warriors and their horses. They were all grim-faced; Penda might not be marching on the kingdom, but this latest development had made them all uneasy. Annan did not blame them. Penda was too ambitious to leave them alone for long. This was but a sign of things to come.
Wordlessly, for both men knew there was nothing more to be said until they were far from Rendlaesham, Saba nodded to his king. Annan gave him a curt nod in response before strapping on his bags behind the saddle. Then, taking the reins from Saba, Annan swung up onto the back of his horse. The heavy-set black stallion shifted under him, impatient to be on its way.
A crowd had now gathered to see off the king. Ignoring them, especially the stricken face of one woman in particular, Annan slung his heavy lime shield over his back and adjusted his sword – Night Bringer – so that it sat within easy reach should they be attacked during the journey. Close to Rendlaesham it would be relatively safe, but Annan had seen enough of the world to know that it was in the moments when a man let his guard down that he came to grief. Next, he put on his iron helmet. It was heavy and uncomfortable, and would cause him to sweat if he wore it for too long. Yet, it shielded his face, from his nose up, from view – something that Annan was grateful for as he took his leave of Rendlaesham.
Annan turned his stallion and urged it into a brisk trot. He led his men out of the shadow of the Great Hall, and through the gates into Rendlaesham. They rode through the town toward the main gates, along a wide, unpaved street. Crowds of townsfolk came out to see the king.
They were all there: the peasants who worked the fields and orchards outside Rendlaesham, the iron smith, the carpenter, the baker, and the brewer. Even the keeper of the town’s mead hall had made an appearance; a florid-faced man who appeared as if he consumed as much mead as he served. Crowds of women and children gathered at the roadside. Some waved, some called out to him – while others watched on silently – their faces gaunt with worry.
Their expressions pained Annan. Although he had temporarily saved them from the axes and spears of the Mercians, most folk knew that it was but a stay of execution. He had given away his own, and the Kingdom’s, pride for a fragile peace.
Annan shared their worries, for there were many nights when he lay awake thinking of the choice he had made. Now, more than ever, he was coming to regret it.
***
A golden dusk settled over the flat meadows of the East Anglian countryside, bringing a long day’s journey to an end. The king’s party made camp next to a stand of lime trees and a small, clear brook. After a cold start, the day had warmed considerably. Even as the sun slid behind the western horizon, the air had
a warmth to it; soft with the promise of summer.
They erected a tent for the king, and another for his thegns. The remaining men would sleep before the fire outside or keep watch over the camp. Annan stayed outside for a while, watching as the last of the sunset faded from the sky and night stole over the world. He shared a cup of ale with his men around the fire and together they ate rabbits that they had roasted over the embers.
Once he had eaten, Annan retired to his tent. There, he sat before the small fire pit in the center, on the edge of the mound of furs. Outside, he could hear the muted sounds of his men’s voices, punctuated by the distant hooting of an owl. It was peaceful out here, far from those who made demands on him, and Annan relished the quiet.
I’m but thirty-three winters, yet I feel as if I carry the weight of the world upon my shoulders, he thought, feeding the fire with some dry sticks. Just a year ago, I spent my days hunting, chasing women and drinking. How things change.
Once he had organized the first watches around the camp’s perimeters, Saba joined Annan for a cup of mead in front of the fire.
“Still brooding?” his friend observed as he sat down on a pile of furs opposite the king and took the cup Annan passed him.
“No,” Annan replied, stretching his long legs out before him, “just reflecting.”
“Sounds like brooding to me.”
Annan shrugged. “Call it what you will. And wipe that smirk off your face – just because you’re lovesick for Hilda doesn’t mean the rest of us have to go around grinning like idiots.”
Saba roared with laughter at that, nearly spilling his mead into the fire. When he recovered, his eyes sparkled with mirth.
“You’ve developed a forked tongue of late,” he observed, “although you’re not wrong. That slave girl is a pretty wench. I’d willingly take her to my bed.”
“She might have something to say about that,” Annan replied. “Every time you look her way the girl wilts in terror.”
“She’s been treated cruelly, that much is clear.” Saba frowned then. “But given time I will teach her we are not all beasts.”
Annan returned his friend’s gaze before nodding. “May fate favor you both, if you wish to pursue her upon our return to Rendlaesham I will allow it.”
“Wyrd has been kind to me so far,” Saba replied, “and I hope my good fortune will continue. Thank you – I would like to pursue her.”
The men lapsed into silence then, each lost in their own thoughts for a few moments. It was Annan who spoke first, his gaze fixed upon the dancing flames.
“Aethelhere has asked me for permission to wed Hereswith.”
Saba’s eyebrows shot up at this. “Truly?”
Annan nodded. “He asked me just before we departed the Great Hall. He couldn’t risk her returning to the north while we are in Mercia.”
“You gave him permission?”
“I did – I wanted to smash my fist into his face but in the end I agreed.”
Saba took a deep draught from his cup before responding. “Was that wise?”
Annan shrugged. “Probably not, but since I can’t have her it seemed petty to deny my brother.”
Saba shook his head at that. “You are a fair man Annan – sometimes too much so. Did you not think about how it will be when Hereswith bears your brother’s children while you’re saddled with your Mercian bride? It will eat you up inside.”
Annan did not respond, and so Saba continued. “It will not be easy, what is coming. Are you ready to face Penda again?”
Annan scowled. “I don’t fear that bastard – it’s only the threat he poses to my kingdom that makes me do his bidding.”
“I know that,” Saba replied, “but you need to prepare yourself for meeting his sister. Are you ready to take her home? She will be hated in Rendlaesham, and marrying her will not make you popular either.”
“You speak the truth,” Annan admitted grimly, before draining the rest of his cup and pouring himself another. “Although I am not in the humor to hear it.”
“I’m not trying to blacken your mood,” Saba countered with a wry smile. “I just think it’s important you reconcile yourself to your fate, before we enter Tamworth.”
Annan nodded before staring moodily into the fire.
“Saewara of Tamworth,” he said her name for the first time, although it left a bitter taste on his tongue. “My doom.”
Chapter Four
The Betrothal
“Saewara, the East Angles have come.”
The words that Saewara dreaded had been spoken.
Five long, miserable days had passed since her disastrous escape attempt, and during that time Saewara had barely left the Great Tower of Tamworth. Penda had assigned two of his ealdormen’s wives to watch over her at all times; even escorting her when she went to the privy or standing over her while she bathed. She was allowed not a moment on her own, and it appeared all in the Great Tower, but her sister-in-law and nieces, now shunned her.
Not that Saewara was good company. She sat, eyes downcast, and shut out the world. Not even the playful antics of her nieces, or Cyneswide’s gentle concern, could draw her out of her misery.
And now the day of execution had arrived.
“Saewara?”
Cyneswide’s voice roused Saewara from where she sat unthinkingly winding wool onto a distaff. For the first time in days, she looked directly at her sister-in-law, and saw the worry etched on her lovely face.
“So they have come?” Saewara’s voice was husky from the hours she had spent crying every night since her recapture. “The waiting is over – I should be grateful for that at least.”
“Come.” Cyneswide beckoned to her. “We must get you ready for your betrothal. The king has gone out to greet them but they will enter the tower soon.”
Saewara rose to her feet and followed the queen without complaint; they both knew the time for resistance had long passed.
The two women entered an antechamber at the back of the hall, screened by a heavy tapestry. For the first time in days, Saewara had a moment of relative privacy. Moving woodenly, as if in a trance, she pulled her heavy woolen over-dress and linen under-tunic over her head and stood naked on the rushes while Cyneswide placed a basin of hot water before her to wash with. Saewara bathed quickly, in deft movements. Despite that it was not cold in the hall, she stood shivering while Cyneswide handed her a freshly laundered linen under-tunic followed by a thick green woolen wealca; a tubular dress clasped at the shoulders by two bronze broaches. Around her waist, she clasped a heavy leather belt, studded with gold, and she adorned her bare arms with gold and silver rings. Then, she donned a dark green cloak, embroidered with gold around the borders. On her feet, she strapped on light leather sandals.
Cyneswide then brushed out Saewara’s long hair, letting it fall down her back in a dark curtain. She had just finished fussing over Saewara’s cloak, and was stepping back to admire her handiwork, when the rumble of men’s voices entering the Great Tower, reached them from beyond the tapestry.
Saewara’s legs began to tremble. Suddenly, the numbness that had protected her over the past days lifted, and she was acutely aware of her surroundings.
“I can’t go to them,” she whispered, clutching at Cyneswide, “please don’t make me!”
“Saewara!” Cyneswide gave her a fierce hug. Then she stood back and took hold of Saewara by the shoulders, her face uncharacteristically resolute. “You must do this. If I could, I would help you – but there is no choice. Only this.”
Saewara stared at her sister-in-law, frozen to the spot.
“You look beautiful.” Cyneswide gave her a tremulous smile, in an effort to bolster Saewara’s courage. “Your new husband-to-be will be enchanted.”
Saewara choked back hysteria at that. “Beautiful?” she gulped, glancing around like a hare cornered by hounds. “I am nothing more than a fattened sow at market, as well you know, Cyneswide.”
Her gaze met Cyneswide’s and she saw the
tears brimming in the queen’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Saewara gasped, “but I was not made for a life such as this – it will kill me.”
“Saewara!” Penda’s voice sounded on the other side of the curtain. “Annan of the East Angles is about to enter this hall. Come out now or I will drag you out by your hair.”
The two women exchanged glances; looks full of unsaid words that could never, and would never, be uttered. They knew their lot – and it was time for Saewara to bow before the life she had been given.
Saewara closed her eyes, clutching the crucifix she wore around her neck to her breast and saying a silent prayer. Then, opening her eyes, she squared her shoulders and stepped toward the tapestry.
Annan walked up the stone steps to the great oaken doors of Penda’s hall, with as much enthusiasm as if he were walking to his own hanging. His warriors flanked him, with Saba at his right side. Their presence did little to alleviate the dread which increased with every step.
Above him, reared the Great Tower of Tamworth; a magnificent, if somber, sight against a colorless sky. Annan had heard many a tale of this fortress, but even so was awed by its size and solidity.
At the doors, Aldfrid of Tamworth, the ealdorman who had brought tidings of Annan’s impending nuptials, stood waiting. He had lost none of his arrogance since the last time they had met; if anything the heavy-set warrior looked even fuller of himself. Of course, he was on home ground now, surrounded by his own people.
They did not speak. Instead, Aldfrid led the way, across an antechamber and into the Great Hall of Tamworth.
A vast circular chamber greeted Annan. There were two great fire pits at one end and a high wooden platform at the other, with stairs leading up to it. Heavy tapestries lined the damp stone walls and flames flickered from clay cressets, illuminating the cavernous space in soft, golden light. A row of narrow windows, high up, let out the smoke from the fire pits.
At the far end, upon a stone dais stood King Penda of Mercia, with his radiant blonde wife at his side. At the foot of the dais, her gaze fixed upon his face stood another, very different, woman.
