by Jayne Castel
Ecgfrith looked up, watching her a moment before he smiled. “Aye.”
Aelfwyn squirmed under the intensity of his stare before she filled his bronze cup. Then she moved on to Aethelhild.
Ecgfrith leaned back in his chair, took a sip from his cup, and shifted his gaze to the dark-haired lad at the far end of the table. The two boys Aelfwyn had seen play fighting together had joined the royal family for the noon meal. “Bridei,” he called out. “A message arrived from Dún Duirn at dawn, from your father.”
The boy, whose mouth was currently full of bread, looked up. He swallowed his mouthful, his dark-blue gaze shining. “Does he want me to go home?”
Ecgfrith gave the lad a cold smile. “No—he sent word that your mother is ill. The healers believe she will die within the next few days.”
Bridei blanched and gripped the edge of the table for support. The freckled lad next to him cast Bridei a worried look but said nothing.
Once Bridei had recovered sufficiently, he met the king’s gaze once more. “I should go to her today, milord.”
Ecgfrith shook his head. “Your father wants you to continue to foster here until you come of age. He does not want you to come home.”
The lad stared at Ecgfrith, his eyes blazing. “He said that?”
Ecgfrith nodded.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Bridei!” the Queen Mother snapped. “Mind your manners—you address your king.”
“I care not.” Bridei scrambled to his feet, his lean frame shaking from the force of the emotions he was trying to keep in check. “He lies.”
Aelfwyn watched Bridei leap down from the high seat and dash across the hall. He dodged a slave bearing a steaming cauldron of broth, leaped over a sleeping dog, and disappeared outside. Pity stirred in her breast. He was a Pictish fosterling, far from his kin, who had just learned his mother was dying. Could Ecgfrith not treat him better?
“Impudent pup.” Ecgfrith raised his cup and took a deep draft. “I’ll whip his backside myself next time he speaks to me thus.”
A heavy silence fell upon the table then. Aethelhild eventually broke it by attempting to make conversation with the Queen Mother.
“Have you had any news from your daughters of late, Eanflaed?”
The Queen Mother looked up from pulling meat off a rabbit carcass, her face creasing in a frown. “Osthryth is as well as can be expected,” she sniffed. “Wedded to that Mercian savage, Aethelred. But Elflaeda is very happy at Streonshalh Abbey.”
Aethelhild smiled. “You must be proud. I hear the Abbess Hilda is a great healer.”
Eanflaed nodded, her expression softening as she thought of her youngest daughter. “The abbess has sent word that Elflaeda is highly skilled in surgery. The lord has gifted her with healing hands.”
Ecgfrith snorted at this, and his mother cast him a quelling look. “You should be proud, milord. Your sister will be Abbess of Streonshalh one day, mark my words.”
“Pious women grate on my nerves,” he muttered under his breath.
Aelfwyn saw her mistress tense at this insult, while the Queen Mother visibly blanched. A strained silence descended upon the heah seatl.
Grateful she had been born a thegn’s daughter and not a highborn lady, Aelfwyn quickly moved off down the table and finished pouring the wine. Her initial excitement to be in Bebbanburg had left her. Suddenly she missed her father’s hall, even her sisters’ bickering. She longed for her parents’ easy conversation and the laughter she had grown up with—this place was an adder’s nest in comparison.
It was a relief to step down off the high seat and join the folk at her table below.
Chapter Three
The Flower-Seller
The first few days of Aelfwyn’s new life at Bebbanburg passed swiftly. It was a cool summer this year, with many days of leaden skies and chill winds, but even so Aelfwyn ventured outdoors whenever she could.
She helped the other servants in the garden behind the Great Tower and picked sour plums off the trees in the orchards. She worked alongside the cooks as they baked bread in the clay ovens outside.
Once her chores were done, Aelfwyn often ventured beyond the high gate into the town proper. She always looked forward to exploring this lofty fort. Bebbanburg fascinated her. High wooden ramparts surrounded the fort, with wooden towers at each corner so that Ecgfrith’s men could spy visitors from any direction. There were two principal ways through the town. The first, the King’s Way, led between the low and high gates. The second road was named the Dragon’s Back, which stretched from south to north along the ridge. Small lanes branched off the Dragon’s Back, leading to the wattle and daub homes of ceorls, the free folk living within the town.
One morning, Aelfwyn decided to visit the market in the square just inside the low gate. The gate was open, letting in a steady flow of cottars and merchants who had come to sell and barter.
A cool wind blew in from the sea, and Aelfwyn wished she had brought a shawl with her. The grey woolen dress she wore was sleeveless, and her bare arms prickled with cold. The weather was definitely bleaker here compared to Rendlaesham, especially since the fort was exposed to the elements. It was the downside of having such a commanding view of the surrounding land. Aelfwyn spied dark clouds out to sea, warning of approaching bad weather.
Trying to ignore the wind, Aelfwyn wandered through the market, breathing in its sights and smells. An elderly woman was selling medicinal herbs, while next to her a farmer was trying to sell a gaggle of noisy, honking geese. Although penned inside a rickety enclosure, the birds were aggressive, hissing and flapping at any prospective buyers who wandered too near.
Aelfwyn gave the geese a wide berth and wandered past a row of stalls selling bread, rabbit pies, and plum cakes. The aroma of baking pies made her mouth water. She had a purse containing a handful of thrymsas, which her mother had given her should she ever need them. As tempting as the pies were, Aelfwyn knew her gold coins were too precious to waste on them.
“Violets and primroses for the pretty lass!” A woman with wild auburn hair, carrying a basket of blue and purple posies, stopped before her. The woman’s daughter clung to her leg; a little girl of around five with an impish face and the same untamed hair as her mother.
Aelfwyn was sorely tempted, even more so than by the pies. She adored flowers. “How much?”
The woman smiled back. “Half a thrymsa for four posies.”
Aelfwyn gave in to temptation. She would keep a posy for herself and decorate her mistress’s bower with the rest. She dug into the purse on her belt and extracted a coin, which she snapped in half.
The woman took the gold, observing her with a shrewd eye. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
“Aye, I’m from Rendlaesham.”
“An East Angle.” The woman’s eyebrows lifted. “You’re a long way from home.”
“I’m handmaid to the queen,” Aelfwyn explained, accepting the posies of violets and primroses.
The woman’s smile faded. “Is it true what they say about her?”
Aelfwyn tensed. “I don’t know … what do they say?”
“That she is barren and cold. The king’s men often visit the meadhall in town—their tongues flap when they’re in their cups. There’s talk she won’t let Ecgfrith near her.”
“Aethelhild is a gentle, god-fearing woman,” Aelfwyn replied, stiffening. She hated that folk were gossiping about her mistress. “She endured a brutal marriage before coming here—the king just needs to be patient with her.”
The woman gave her a speculative look. “Ecgfrith is not a patient man—and he’s used to getting his own way.”
The woman reached down and caressed her daughter’s unruly mop of auburn hair as she spoke. Aelfwyn watched the pair of them, suspicion dawning. Something in this woman’s tone suggested that she spoke from personal experience. She knew the king well.
Is this child his bastard?
Aelfwyn’s stomach churned. It was not u
ncommon for kings to father children from local women. Ecgfrith was young and until eight days ago had been unwed. As if sensing her suspicions, the woman stepped back, her gaze shuttering.
“Enjoy the flowers,” she said lightly, before taking her daughter’s hand. “Come, Hea.”
Aelfwyn nodded and clutched the posies to her breast as the flower-seller moved off. Her encounter with this strange woman had left her uneasy, as if a cloud had just passed over the sun. There was something fey about the flower-seller. She reminded Aelfwyn of the seer who lived in Rendlaesham—a frightening old woman who could look into your soul.
Suppressing a shudder, Aelfwyn turned and made her way out of the market, and up the King’s Way toward the Great Tower.
It’s just the cold, she told herself.
Despite her unsettling encounter, Aelfwyn did not hurry back to the Great Tower. Over the last few days she had done her best to escape its somber atmosphere—and the tension between the king and queen.
Although Aethelhild had not spoken of her husband again, Aelfwyn did not need to be a seer to divine that things were strained between them. At meal times, the couple sat in stony silence, barely acknowledging each other’s presence.
Oddly, Aethelhild appeared more serene and reserved than ever. She had taken to wearing a wooden crucifix upon her breast, and she accompanied the Queen Mother to church every morning. Meanwhile, the king’s mood worsened with each passing day. He grew surly and spent increasing amounts of time out hawking or hunting with his men.
Aelfwyn crossed into the inner palisade through the high gate. She thought on the flower-seller’s warning and felt a tickle of foreboding. Ecgfrith is not a patient man—and he’s used to getting his own way.
She worried for her mistress. Aethelhild had a strong will, but there would come a day when the king would not take no for an answer.
“Is anything amiss?”
Aelfwyn looked up from her embroidery to find Aethelhild watching her steadily. They sat at their usual place near the open window inside the royal alcove. Outside, the late afternoon had turned greyer still, and the gusting wind now had drops of rain in it. The fire pit behind them guttered in the hearth, but the queen refused to close the shutters. She had spent most of the day within her chamber and liked to work with the natural light filtering in.
“No,” she replied quickly. “Why do you ask?”
“You’re a little pale and distracted.”
“I visited the market without a shawl this morning.” Aelfwyn blurted the first excuse that came to mind. “I think I might have caught a slight chill.”
The queen’s gaze shifted to the clay pot filled with violets and primroses on the table next to them. “The flowers are lovely, but you needn’t have gone on my account.”
Aelfwyn smiled. She was pleased the flowers brightened up her mistress’s day. “I enjoyed the outing—it was no bother.”
She looked back down at her work—the hem of one of the queen’s dresses she was embroidering with gold thread—and did a few neat stitches. However, she was aware that Aethelhild was still watching her. Eventually, unable to bear the scrutiny any longer, Aelfwyn met her gaze.
“Are you enjoying your new life in Bebbanburg?” Aethelhild asked.
“I am,” Aelfwyn responded hesitantly, “although it’s different to what I expected. Folk don’t seem as friendly here as in Rendlaesham.”
Aethelhild smiled. “That’s only because they don’t know you, Aelfwyn. With your kindness and sunny smile, you will soon make friends here.”
Aelfwyn blushed. She was not used to compliments, least of all from Aethelhild. “Have things gotten easier for you, milady?” she asked. “Has the king respected your wishes?”
The queen nodded, although her expression tightened. “Aye, he has—although not without making his opinion of me clear. I fear that I have made an enemy out of him. I am fortunate though, for some husbands would merely force their wife to submit to them. Ecgfrith is not such a man.”
Aelfwyn tensed, wondering if she should share what the flower-seller had told her. She decided against it. Aethelhild was not a woman to appreciate idle gossip. “I’m sorry this is not the life you wanted, milady,” she said finally. “It seems unfair.”
Her mistress smiled then, although her eyes held no brightness. “One thing I came to understand years ago, dearest Aelfwyn, is that few things in life are fair.”
Aelfwyn watched the queen a moment, not knowing what to respond. For a woman with such strong faith, it was a fatalistic comment; the words of a woman who had lost all hope for the future.
As if realizing the impact her declaration had on her young handmaid, Aethelhild reached across and placed a hand over hers. “Don’t look so concerned. Your happiness is a beacon of light in my life. Although you may not realize so now, your bright disposition will smooth many paths ahead for you. Whatever happens—don’t ever let that light go out.”
Aelfwyn’s brow furrowed. She found her mistress’s words cryptic, and the note of warning in them made her even more worried than before. She opened her mouth to query Aethelhild, but the clang of iron behind them forestalled her. The time of the evening meal was upon them.
The queen put aside her work and rose to her feet, her skirts rustling, and cast her handmaid an apologetic smile. “Come, Ecgfrith awaits.”
Chapter Four
Upon the Lonely Isle
Sheets of rain blew across the windswept island of Lindisfarena, bringing with them a chill from colder lands to the north.
Leofric bowed his head against the gale, drew his homespun robes close against him, and hurried up the path toward the monastery. The leather bag stuffed with driftwood thudded against his spine with each step.
If this is summer, I can’t wait till the bitter months, Leofric thought with a grimace. This far north the wind seemed to drive into a man’s bones. His damp robes chaffed his skin, providing little protection from the weather, and he longed for the thick fur mantle they had stripped him of upon his arrival here.
Ahead, a collection of low, wooden buildings sprawled before him. Hemmed in by the headland on three sides, it was the most sheltered spot on the island. The roof of the priory rose higher than all the others, peeking up from the center of the complex.
Despite his desire to get out of the rain, Leofric felt no relief that his destination lay a short distance ahead. He wished he could turn around and run from it—the driving rain and high tides be damned.
One long month had passed since Halwend and Godwine’s sons had hauled Leofric here and dumped him at the feet of Cuthbert. The moon had been waxing when they rowed Leofric across from the coast, with the fires of Bebbanburg lighting the southern sky. He had tried to escape twice on the journey from Eoforwic, so he went before the prior with a bruised eye, split lip, and trussed up like a Yuletide goose.
The moon was now waxing once more—two more nights and it would be full.
Leofric quickened his step, squinting at the pitch torches guttering at the entrance to the monastery. He was late for Night Prayers—again.
This time it was not his fault. After the usual silent evening meal of coarse bread and pottage, he had gone off to collect driftwood for the feeble hearth that burned in the hut he shared with three others. Bad weather had closed in, and despite that it was still summer, Leofric had not wanted to spend the night shivering under his one coarse woolen blanket. Dusk fell swiftly with the bad weather, and his wandering had taken him to the northern edge of the island, to Snook Point, where he had lost track of time.
Leofric passed under a wooden arch, his feet splashing through puddles as he made his way across the central yard toward the church. He passed low timber buildings, their windows all dark as everyone was at prayers.
Reaching the church, Leofric dumped his bag of wood, stepped into the stone entranceway, and pushed back his sodden cowl. Underneath, his auburn hair had been cropped off close to the scalp. He had not yet shaved off the hair at the c
rown of his head into a tonsure though, for he was still a postulant—the prior had not yet accepted him into the order.
The thought of taking the vows of poverty, chastity and obedience and becoming a novice here soured Leofric’s stomach. He could not bear the idea of spending the rest of his life here rotting away on this rock—yet that fate was inching ever closer.
Dripping water, Leofric squelched his way into the church, where a group of twenty men knelt in prayer upon the roughly paved floor. He inhaled the acrid smell of burning pitch, which filled the iron cressets lining the walls. The flames guttered and flickered in the drafts as the storm outside tried to force its way in through the cracks in the walls and shutters.
Cuthbert stood upon a raised wooden platform. Dressed in a dyed blue habit, his head dipped, he cut a solemn figure. Torchlight gleamed off his shaved crown, his hands clasped before him in prayer.
Leofric’s sandals scraped on the stone as he approached. The sound caused the prior to glance up. His brown eyes flashed in annoyance, his lips thinning, before he cast his gaze downward once more. Knowing that would not be the last of it, Leofric took his place at the end of the row of kneeling monks. A slender youth with close-cropped blond hair looked Leofric’s way as he knelt down. Deorwine gave him a pained look, but Leofric merely grinned back.
A cottar’s son who had grown up near Bebbanburgh, Deorwine had proved to be a much-needed friend during the month Leofric had lived on Lindisfarena. Unlike some of the monks who lived here, Deorwine still acted as if there was a world beyond the monastery and this lonely isle.
The stone pavers were cold and hard beneath Leofric’s knees as he knelt. He closed his eyes. Instead of praying, he listened to the drum of rain on the roof and the sound of it lashing against the walls of the church. Low-lying with no woodland to protect it, Lindisfarena sat very exposed to the elements. It was a godforsaken spot, but perhaps that was why the monks had chosen it.
