by Jayne Castel
“Range Master,” Penda called out, “let’s raise the game a little – these two have had it easy till now. Move the targets back!”
The warrior nodded and shouted orders at two lads who rushed to obey. They moved the targets back to a ridiculous distance; farther than Saewara had ever shot.
Bastard, she threw a venomous look at her brother. You wish to humiliate us both.
“Archers, you each have six arrows. Ready your bows!” the Range Master ordered. “On the count of three – loose your arrows! One, two, three!”
The twang of the bow-strings releasing echoed through the still crowd.
Saewara lowered her bow, and peered at the target.
“Red and red,” the Range Master boomed. “Ready your bows!”
Saewara slotted an arrow, lifted her bow and aimed. She felt sweat bead on her forehead as she took a deep breath and held it. A moment later, she released the arrow and heard it sing as it flew.
“Red and red,” the Range Master called out.
And so it continued. Saewara and Annan matched each other, shot for shot; twice on the red, twice on the blue – and one more on the red. Only one shot remained. Saewara’s hands were clammy and her heart raced as she stole a glance in Annan’s direction. He stood, at the end of the row, as tall and intimidating as Thor himself. He was slotting his last arrow into his bow when Saewara glanced his way; and feeling her gaze upon him, he finally looked up – acknowledging her for the first time.
Their gazes held for a moment, and Saewara felt the shock of it ripple down from the base of her ribs into her belly. Then, she tore her gaze away from his, took the sixth arrow from its quiver and slotted it.
“Ready your bows!” the Range Master barked. “One, two, three!”
The bow strings sang for the last time. The arrows flew and hit the targets with a dull thud; first Saewara’s, and then Annan’s.
The lads rushed to the targets to inspect them.
“Red!” One of them shouted upon reaching Saewara’s target. “Just inside the line between the red and the yellow – but it’s red!”
“Yellow!” shouted the second lad who stood before Annan’s target. “On the line!”
“Annan of the East Angles wins!” the Range Master snarled the words as if they were poison. Although he would have disliked seeing Saewara best a man at archery, he had wanted to see Annan thoroughly humiliated even more.
Bitter defeat made tears well in Saewara’s eyes. She hurriedly blinked them away and clenched her jaw in an effort to compose herself. It had been so close; she had only lost by a whisker. Yet, it was defeat all the same.
The crowd hooted and wolf-whistled.
“Congratulations, Annan,” Penda called from the sidelines. “You bested my champion – well done.”
Managing to regain control of herself, Saewara swiveled round to watch Annan walk down the row of targets toward the edge of the games area. His face was livid. He did not look like a man who had just won a competition.
Saewara did not blame him. Winner or not, he was still humiliated by having to compete against his betrothed in a low-born sport. The jeering crowd did not help matters. Annan stormed off the archery range, and Saewara stepped back hurriedly to let him pass. Reaching the edge, he threw down his bow and quiver with a look of pure disgust and walked away.
The crowd drew back to let him pass. Up close, none were brave enough to insult the wrathful East Angle.
Saewara watched him go, her belly twisting in dread. Glancing at her brother’s cruel smile as he watched Annan stalk away from the games, Saewara realized that Penda had gotten his wish. He had humiliated Annan and taken revenge on his willful sister in one clever move.
A warrior’s pride was not easily soothed. Far from merely resenting his betrothed, Saewara realized, with a sense of impending doom, that he would now hate her.
Chapter Six
The Lovers’ Dance
The melancholy strains of a lyre drifted through the Great Tower of Tamworth, mingling with the rumble of voices. Long tables piled high with food and drink ringed the cavernous space, illuminated by the glow of the fire pits. It was a great feast of roast duck, boar and venison, tureens of leek soup, massive wheels of cheese and platters of griddle bread, roast carrots and mashed turnip. Dogs slunk under the tables, waiting for the morsels that would soon fall onto the rush-strewn floor, and slaves circled the space with jugs of mead and ale for the diners.
The mood was jovial and festive. It was the beginning of summer; the end of a long, warm day filled with entertainment and laughter. There was a betrothal to celebrate and delicious food to be enjoyed.
Yet, there were some at the feast who did not share in the merriment.
Saewara sat near the head of the table, flanked by her brother to the right and her betrothed to her left. She sat on the bench, hands folded on her lap, staring down at the wooden plate before her, listening to the happy chatter of her nieces further down the table. Male laughter boomed across the hall as one of Penda’s ealdormen made a ribald comment about one of the serving wenches.
Penda laughed along with them. He was in a merry mood this eve; Saewara had rarely seen him so relaxed. Cyneswide sat to his right, smiling demurely and content to let the men dominate the conversation.
Saewara did not glance Annan’s way.
She knew he would also be ignoring her; after today’s debacle, she did not blame him.
The guests fell upon the feast and Saewara woodenly helped herself to some duck, bread and roasted carrots. Misery had robbed her of an appetite but she knew she had to make a show of eating or she would anger her brother. A slave appeared at her elbow and poured her a cup full of strong mead. Saewara took one gulp, and then another. She usually disliked the taste of mead, preferring milk or water at meals, but this evening she craved oblivion; anything to take the edge off her unhappiness.
As she picked at her meal, Saewara chanced a furtive glance to her left, where her betrothed sat in silence. Annan looked handsome this eve, dressed in a royal blue tunic that matched his eyes, with his long blond hair loose about his shoulders. Yet, his face was hard, and Saewara could see a nerve twitching in his jaw. He ate slowly, but without joy, speaking to no one. To his right sat Aldfrid, Penda’s most trusted ealdorman. Aldfrid did not exchange a word with Annan, and the King of the East Angles likewise ignored him.
Saewara looked back at her meal and forced herself to continue eating. She wanted this evening to be over.
Annan chewed a piece of duck and nursed the slowly kindling rage that had been smoldering since he had arrived in Tamworth. The gods were testing him, it seemed. Ever since he had agreed to Penda’s terms, that fateful evening on the edge of the battlefield, his life had taken a downward spiral.
Humiliation after humiliation. He was not sure how much more he could take. If Penda took one more liberty, Annan knew he would not be responsible for his actions.
Today had been torture.
Annan had been surprised to discover his betrothed was so skilled in archery, and under other circumstances, he would have enjoyed seeing a woman handle a bow and arrow with such mastery. Yet, pitting him against his betrothed in front of a jeering crowd was inexcusable, and although she had done him no harm directly, Annan now loathed his wife-to-be, almost as much as he did Penda himself.
He took a deep draught of mead, feeling its warmth burn into the pit of his belly, and was suddenly aware of Saewara’s gaze upon him. Like earlier, when he had sensed her gaze flick toward him, Annan ignored her. He could not look at any of them this evening. They all made him sick to his stomach.
Eventually, the mead relaxed Annan, especially as he ate lightly. When servants started to serve honey-seed cakes – signaling the meal was coming to an end – he lifted his head for the first time and glanced about him. His gaze drifted to his right and settled for a moment on his betrothed.
He hated to admit, in fact it galled him terribly, but Saewara was an extremely attract
ive woman. She wore a becoming white, sleeveless tunic, cinched at the waist with an amber-studded belt. The only other jewelry she wore was two bronze arm rings on her left bicep. The arm rings highlighted her beautifully shaped arms, whereas the dress accentuated her small but curvaceous figure; a tiny waist and swelling bosom. Her long, dark hair spilled over her shoulders and down her slender back.
In his inebriated state, Annan allowed himself a brief moment to appreciate his betrothed; yes, she was lovely, although too exotic for his tastes. In that tunic, she looked like one of the Roman noble women his grandfather had described to him as a boy. Her gaze was downcast and her cheeks flushed from mead; her eye-lashes were long and dark against her milky skin.
Realizing that he was, indeed, staring, Annan tore his gaze away and resolved not to look in Saewara’s direction again. The mead had lowered his defenses, and softened his resentment. Yet, the rage was still lurking beneath his calm façade.
The sound of a woman’s voice, accompanied by the lilting strains of a lyre, intruded upon Annan’s mulling. He looked up to see Queen Cyneswide standing near the head of the table. She sung a rousing epic about love, loss, betrayal and hope. Her voice was hauntingly beautiful, and for a short while, Annan felt himself pulled into her story. He sipped his mead and listened broodingly to her words. When she sung about the vengeance of a wronged man, he felt his anger surge.
Yes, one day, he too would settle some scores. Penda might be victorious now, but there would come a day when Annan would wipe that smirk off his face.
Once Cyneswide finished her epic, the feasters burst into raucous applause. Their voices echoed off the damp stone walls and lifted high into the roof of the great tower. Then, another musician stepped up next to the lyrist and began to play a rousing tune.
Men and women rose from their seats at the long tables and made their way out into a wide rectangle of open floor that had been cleared for the dancing. The dance began; one that Annan had witnessed many times, where the men formed one line, and the women another. The two lines then moved in unison. The men twirled their partners one way, and then the other, as they moved down the line and brought their hands together to mimic an archway at the far end. At this point, the couple at the far end would run down the column of raised arms, hand in hand. It was a dance for lovers. Annan turned his back on it and refilled his cup of mead from the jug in front of him.
He had no wish to watch lovers dance this eve.
“The betrothed!” Penda rose to his feet, his eyes gleaming. He then raised his cup and stared straight at Annan. “This dance is for my lovely sister and her husband-to-be. Applaud them, as they lead this dance together!”
Annan slammed his cup down on the table and glowered at Penda. He should have known this would happen. The Mercian King would not let him be till he left Tamworth – and since the East Angles were due to leave at first light tomorrow, that left him little time for sport.
“Dog,” Annan muttered under his breath. “Let me be!”
“A dance!” Penda bellowed. “I shall have a dance from King Annan of the East Angles and his betrothed!”
“A dance!” those at the table chorused, their faces bright with mead and vindictive joy. “A dance!”
Annan glanced at Saewara. She had gone pink and was sitting with her hands cupped in her lap, her face tense. She looked as miserable as he felt. Yet, they were both backed into a corner. With a snarl, Annan rose to his feet and bent toward Saewara.
“Come on,” he growled. “Let’s give them what they want.”
He took hold of her hand and pulled her, not ungently, to her feet. Despite her flushed cheeks, Saewara’s hand was ice-cold.
It struck Annan, as he led her toward the cheering dancers, that those brusque words were the first he had spoken directly to his betrothed.
Saewara blinked back tears and forced herself to raise her chin and walk with what little dignity she still possessed onto the dance floor. Fortunately, Annan did not look her way. His hand was warm and strong in hers. She did not want to admit it, but his warmth suffused her hand and forearm, and gave her strength. Her fingers tingled from contact with him; a sensation she had never felt when taking her late husband’s hand.
He had spoken to her harshly but there had been no roughness in the way he had pulled her to her feet. Despite all that had happened, Saewara felt a strange kinship with her betrothed. They were both humiliated by her brother’s continuing delight in making sport of them in front of his ealdormen and thegns.
There would be no respite until they left the Great Tower of Tamworth.
Saewara took her place, opposite Annan at the end of the row of dancers and fixed her gaze upon the center of his chest – easier than raising her chin to look him in the eye as he towered above her.
The bone whistle and lyre, which had halted while Penda pressured them to dance, resumed their tune with renewed vigor. The watching feasters cheered and whistled. Ribald comments rose above the cheering and Saewara’s cheeks burned even hotter at some of the filth her brother’s men shouted out at them.
How I loathe this place, she thought, grinding her teeth in fury. She might have been going to a new home, one where she would be reviled, but the knowledge that she would only have to spend one more night under her brother’s roof gave her a grim satisfaction.
The dancers exploded into movement, and Saewara had no more time to think on her humiliation, for suddenly, Annan had taken both her hands and was pulling her toward him.
Saewara’s stomach dipped; an odd, dizzying sensation.
I should not have drunk so much mead.
It had been years since she had danced. Egfrid had hated dancing, and once the obligatory courtship rituals had been taken care of, he had never taken part in dancing on feast days, or even at Beltaine or Yule. It had been just as well, since he had been a poor dancer, and his brutality that started soon after they were wed, made her loath to touch him.
A strange thrill went through Saewara when Annan’s hand rested on her waist for an instant. Then, he twirled her away from him. Saewara’s heart pounded against her ribs. The heat of his hand had reached her skin, even through the thick fabric of her tunic.
Remembering the steps she had been taught as a girl, she dipped and curtsied before her partner, before circling coquettishly around him.
The hall roared around her, but Saewara ignored them all, concentrating on the dance. She stepped back toward Annan, and he took hold of both her hands. Together, they ran down the archway of raised arms to the end, before raising their own arms together, while the next couple began their dance.
Breathing heavily, Saewara finally raised her gaze to her betrothed’s face. His gaze snared hers and for a few moments, under the privacy of their raised arms, they stared at each other.
Saewara stood, transfixed. A wave of need consumed her; a hunger that took her breath away. She had never experienced a sensation like it before in her twenty-five winters – the intensity of it frightened her.
Moments later, Annan ripped his gaze from hers, breaking the connection.
Saewara dropped her own gaze down to her feet and struggled to compose herself. What was that? Was that what lust felt like?
She wasn’t sure she liked the sensation; it felt like stepping off a precipice, and losing control. The way he had looked at her had made her body melt like candle-wax.
They remained there a while, until the column of dancers broke apart and each couple twirled in a circle around the floor. Saewara kept her gaze planted on Annan’s chest, and on the open neck of his tunic, where she could see the blond curls of his chest hair peeking up through the laced collar that had loosened with the dancing. The hunger returned but this time, Saewara shoved it aside. The mead had lowered both their defenses. Once the dancing finished, they would both return to their senses. She would not make the mistake of looking at his face again.
The dancing lasted an eternity for Saewara. When it finally ended, she broke free from
Annan, without glancing in his direction, and fled back to the table. Returning to her seat, she poured herself a large cup of water and resolved never to touch mead again.
Annan took his seat next to his blushing bride-to-be and refused the offer of more mead from a passing serving wench. After what had just occurred on the dance-floor, it was best to keep a clear head. He stole a glance at Saewara and felt a shadow of the naked lust he had experienced during the dance, return.
Woden, she had stirred him.
Even now, he was not sure what had come over him. Yet, as exciting as the sensation had been, it did not please Annan. If his bride had been another, he would welcome such a rush of desire. Yet, this woman was the sister of a man he deeply despised. Penda sought to crush both Annan and his people – and was using this marriage to do so.
I will not bed her, Annan resolved, staring down at the remains of his barely touched meal before him. I will not have Penda make an even bigger fool of me than he has already.
Chapter Seven
In the Darkness
“Are you ready?”
“Almost, just give me a moment.”
Saewara rolled up the last of her long woolen over-dresses and stuffed it into the sheepskin bag that stood on the rushes at her feet. She owned little, so packing for the trip to Rendlaesham had taken moments. Next to her stood Cyneswide, who had done her best to help Saewara make preparations for her departure from Tamworth.
Around them, the Great Tower of Tamworth was alive with the morning’s activity. Women were baking griddle bread at the far end of the hall, while a group of ealdormen’s wives sat gossiping at looms nearby. Children played with dogs in the center of the hall while a group of slaves stood gutting rabbits at one of the long tables.
Annan of the East Angles was nowhere in sight. Saewara guessed that he was already outside, impatient to depart for home.
