by Jayne Castel
“It’s safe now,” he said from close behind her. “I’m clothed.”
Clenching her jaw at the amusement in his voice, she turned to face him. She only hoped her face had stopped flaming. However, she found him only partially clad. Naked to the waist, he sat on the grassy bank and pulled on his boots.
“It’s a relief to get that stinking armor off me,” he admitted. “I really don’t want to put it on again.” He motioned to his left, where he had wrung out his woolen tunic and laid it out on a flat rock.
“We really shouldn’t linger,” she said stiffly.
“We’ll move on in a short while,” he promised her. “I just need my tunic to dry a little.”
Aelfwyn nodded before her gaze fixed upon the wound on his left shoulder. She frowned. “Did Thunred do that?”
He nodded, glancing down at the cut. “Luckily, I got him worse.”
Aelfwyn snorted and came closer to inspect the cut. Up close, it was swollen and an angry red. “A lot of comfort that will give you when it poisons your blood.”
She looked up, her gaze meeting his. His hazel-green eyes held her fast, and she felt the blush returning to her cheeks. She wished he would not look at her like that—it made her insides melt like tallow. “If the wound sours,” she said sharply, to mask her discomfort at his closeness, “Thunred will get his wish.”
Chapter Sixteen
Arrival at Streonshalh
Leofric stiffened, his shoulder throbbing dully as Aelfwyn pressed a handful of dark green pulp into his wound. “God’s bones, what’s that?”
She glanced up from her work, their gazes meeting. They were so close that he could see the blue flecks in her grey eyes. Her cheeks were slightly flushed.
“It’s Woundwort,” she said quietly. “My mother swears by it.”
“For what?” Leofric’s nose wrinkled at the pungent odor the herb emitted. “To keep evil spirits away from the hearth.”
Aelfwyn gave him an exasperated look. “To keep wounds from souring.”
After inspecting the livid cut on his shoulder, Aelfwyn had gone off into the trees, reappearing a short while later with a handful of herbs. Intrigued, Leofric had watched her mash them to a pulp on one of the large flat rocks by the river. She had worked deftly, her pale brow furrowed in concentration.
“I need to bind the wound,” she said, stepping back and inspecting her handiwork. “To keep the Woundwort inside.”
“I don’t think Thunred packed any clean linens,” Leofric replied with a shrug, “but you can tear some material off my tunic if that serves.”
She shook her head. “Wool won’t do.” With that, she leaned down and pulled up the hem of the woolen dress she wore. Underneath, Leofric spied a fawn-colored linen undertunic.
Deftly, she tore a wide strip off the hem. Looking on, Leofric caught a glimpse of the shapely calves and fine ankles underneath. “You’re a resourceful wench,” he admitted, grinning at her.
Aelfwyn approached him once more, and although her face was serious Leofric could have sworn he saw her eyes twinkle. His charm was starting to wear away at her; slowly eroding the wall of ice she had built between them.
“My mother always stressed the importance of a woman having skills,” she said quietly as she bound his shoulder. “My father provides well for my family, but we are not high-born. Women have to be more than wives and mothers.”
Leofric nodded. “It’s the same in my family. My two older sisters have never been idle a day in their life.”
Aelfwyn’s gaze met his. “Unlike their younger brother?”
He quirked an eyebrow. Was she teasing him, or criticizing? “It’s a man’s world, Aelfwyn,” he replied quietly. “I’m not to blame for that.”
She huffed and finished tying the bandage. “No, but you take full advantage of it.”
Leofric shrugged, favoring her with a slow smile. She was challenging him, and it surprised him. When they had first met he had thought her a gentle, timid soul but he was beginning to realize she was far tougher than he realized. Her ordeal at Bebbanburg had stripped away her illusions about life, but in doing so it had forged her anew. He noted the iron resolve in her and decided he liked it.
He rose to his feet and reluctantly reached for his damp tunic. He could have sat here all day, with the sun on his skin, having Aelfwyn fuss over him, but she had spoken true earlier. They lingered at their peril. Windræs was swift and had carried them far ahead of their pursuers—however, that did not mean they were safe.
A chill settled over Leofric then, like a shadow passing over the sun, when he realized that it did not matter how far he ran, he would always be a hunted man.
Thanks to Godwine of Eoforwic, he would never be safe.
Aelfwyn stretched, slowly awakening to the sound of chirping birds. A cool breeze kissed her face and she opened her eyes. A few feet away, Leofric kicked dirt over the embers of last night’s fire.
It had been the first fire they had dared light since fleeing south. They were now far enough ahead of their pursuers that Leofric had decided to risk it. They had roasted two conies and sat in companionable silence afterward as they consumed their meal.
Aelfwyn yawned and sat up. “Morning.”
Leofric glanced up. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
She nodded, rising to her feet and brushing leaves and twigs out of her hair. “I think I’m finally getting used to sleeping on the ground.”
Leofric smiled. “You won’t have to for much longer. If we ride hard today, we should reach Streonshalh just before dusk.”
Aelfwyn tensed—warring with an odd blend of relief and anxiety. She longed to be safe within the abbey’s walls, but she also knew that a very different life awaited her, one that she would never have chosen willingly.
“I thought you’d look happier at the news,” Leofric said, watching her intently.
Aelfwyn frowned at him. Leofric was far too sharp; he never missed a thing.
Over the past two days, since she had dressed his wound, she had thawed toward him; it was hard to stay angry at a man who wielded charm like a weapon. She was also grateful to him for keeping her safe, and for hunting and providing for her.
“I am happy,” she replied. “I just wonder what the future has in store. What if the abbess doesn’t admit me? What if she gives me back to the king?”
Leofric considered her questions, his face unusually serious. “Aye, those are both valid concerns.” He paused here, his gaze trapping hers. “You don’t have to go to Streonshalh, Aelfwyn. Travel south with me instead and start a new life.”
Aelfwyn stared at him. His suggestion caused her belly to tighten in a blend of excitement and terror—a reaction which shocked her. “Start a new life … with you?”
Leofric’s gaze had turned shuttered. He had seen her reaction. “Is that such a repellant idea?”
“No … yes …” Aelfwyn stuttered. She felt flustered, hot. “I can’t do that, Leofric.”
He shrugged, and she knew he was feigning indifference—that her reaction had hurt him. “Very well,” he said, turning away. “Then you will just have to take your chances with the abbess.”
It was not a good start to the day. They resumed their journey south, riding along the windswept coastline, but they did so in silence.
Windræs flew, his feathery hooves eating up the furlongs. The wind, coming in from the southeast, churned up the sea. Gulls and herons swooped low over the surf, their cries mingling with the boom of the crashing waves. Aelfwyn was glad they were riding along the coast again; the sea calmed her pitching stomach, soothed her jangled nerves.
She had not meant to offend Leofric, to insult him.
But surely he realized she could not go away with him. At the moment, their journey together had a purpose. He was her protector—nothing more. If she continued to travel with him though, their relationship would change. She had already seen the naked interest in his eyes at unguarded moments; noted the way he watched her
sometimes. She did not fear him, but ever since Leofric’s fight with Thunred she did not trust him either.
He was a man, after all. He would try to stake his claim on her sooner or later. She could not bear the thought of being forced again. Her body was her own, and she would keep it that way.
The farther south they traveled, the firmer Aelfwyn’s resolve grew. The arrival at Streonshalh had arrived just in time. The past few days together had forged a bond between her and Leofric; one she did not want.
One she had to sever.
True to Leofric’s prediction, they reached Streonshalh close to dusk. Long shadows blanketed the cliffs, and the sun was close to sliding behind the grassy hills to the east.
Aelfwyn spied the abbey, many furlongs before they reached it: a solid building of wood and stone, surrounded by a high wooden fence. It commanded over the surrounding land.
As they rode along the headland north of Streonshalh, Aelfwyn glanced down to the scheduled harbor below. Tidy, timbered fishing huts with thatched roofs and squat tanning sheds clustered together, blanketing the bottom of the hillside. A few rowboats bobbed against a wooden jetty, reminding Aelfwyn that folk here made a living out of the herrings they caught in the cool waters at the mouth of the River Usk.
Smoke rose from the roofs of the houses, and she caught a whiff of roasting mutton on the wind. Her stomach growled; it felt a long while had passed since she had last eaten at noon.
They forded the River Usk and rode up the steep path toward the abbey. Then, instead of approaching Streonshalh, Leofric turned Windræs southwest across the upper pastures and circled around two furlongs south of the abbey’s main gate. There he drew the gelding to a halt.
“I shall leave you here.” Leofric swung down from the saddle before reaching up to help her dismount. “It’s best the nuns don’t see us arrive together.”
Aelfwyn nodded and slid to the ground. He was right; she would have a hard enough task in explaining who she was and why she had come. Seeing her arrive with a leather-clad warrior would not help matters.
Aelfwyn shucked off the voluminous monk’s habit she wore over her long tunic and stuffed it into Leofric’s saddlebag. She did not wish to explain that either. Then she then turned to Leofric, raising her chin to meet his eye.
The wind buffeted them, whipping her hair into her eyes. Blinking, she pushed it aside. The solemn look on Leofric’s face, the steadiness of his gaze, made her breathing quicken. He would not make saying goodbye easy.
“Thank you, Leofric,” she began softly, “for everything.”
His mouth twisted. “You don’t have to thank me.”
She reached forward, her fingers closing over his hand. “I do—you saved me. I’ll never forget it.”
He placed a hand over hers, trapping her fingers between both his hands. The warmth and strength of him seeped into her, warming her to the core. “You don’t still revile me then?” he asked softly.
“Revile you? Of course not.”
“I’m sorry I’m not the man you thought I was.”
So was Aelfwyn. She wished she had never learned of his past, but there was no undoing it. Still, she did not want any bitterness between them now, not when these would be the last words they would ever speak.
“I have no right to judge you,” she replied with a tremulous smile. “Not when I am far from perfect myself.”
He squeezed her hand gently. “You are perfect … and without you my days will feel sunless.”
Aelfwyn stared up at him, surprised by his admission. She stared into his face, looking for a trace of mockery but there was none. He had meant those words.
“I do not like leaving you here,” he continued, his gaze never leaving hers, “Not when I don’t know how the Abbess Hilda will receive you.”
Aelfwyn shook her head. “But you must.”
He watched her for a heartbeat longer, his eyes deepening from hazel to green with intensity. “I will wait here,” he told her before he jerked his chin south. “Just beyond the line of those hills—every day at sunset for the next five days.”
Aelfwyn tried to extract her hand from between his, but he held her fast. “You don’t need to do that.”
“I do,” he replied firmly. “I can’t ride away not knowing whether you will be safe here or not.”
“But, it’s not for you to—”
Before she could finish her sentence, Leofric drew her to him and covered her mouth with his. It was a gentle, sensual kiss. For an instant, Aelfwyn melted into him, lost in the feel of his lips—smooth, soft and warm—on hers. Heat flowered in the pit of her belly at his touch.
Then reality doused her like an icy bucket of water. She turned rigid in Leofric’s arms.
Leofric pulled away, his hands releasing her as he did so. His mouth quirked when he met her eye once more. “I know I should apologize for that—but I won’t.” He stepped back, creating a gulf between them. “Five days, Aelfwyn. After that I’ll ride away and leave you to the life you have chosen.”
Chapter Seventeen
Hilda and Elflaeda
Aelfwyn watched Leofric mount Windræs. She pulled her flapping robes around her, remaining where she was as he reined the horse south.
He did not look back.
When he disappeared over the brow of the windswept hill, she turned and faced her destination: Streonshalh Abbey. The setting sun had burnished its wooden fence bronze. Smoke rose somewhere inside the perimeter, where presumably the nuns would be preparing the evening meal.
Aelfwyn breathed in slowly and deeply. Leofric’s kiss had unbalanced her; even now she could still feel the lingering touch of his lips on hers. She could not bring herself to be angry at him. The kiss had been chaste, although her body’s initial reaction to it had not—until memories of the night Ecgfrith had used her had rushed in and extinguished the warmth of his touch. The wound the king had inflicted on her, a wound no one could see, had barely scabbed. One kiss had ripped it open.
Aelfwyn blinked back tears. Be strong, she berated herself. You can’t crumble, not now.
She wished Leofric had not made that promise. It was foolish and risky on his part; King Ecgfrith’s men still hunted them both. He needed to get himself as far as possible from Streonshalh—and fast.
I should have refused him. I should have told him to leave tonight.
But she had not.
Slowly, she began walking toward the abbey. Inside, she heard the bell clanging, hailing the nuns to prayers. Soon that bell would mark her days. Leofric had just escaped from such a life. Yet she and Leofric were not alike. He was wild and free—keeping him locked up in a monastery would be like trying to harness the North Wind. Instead she sought solitude and peace. Rather than a life of religious contemplation, she sought a haven from the world of men, and the abbey would provide it.
Aelfwyn lengthened her stride and headed toward the gate, toward a fresh start.
Abbess Hilda of Streonshalh Abbey fixed Aelfwyn in a clear, gentle gaze. “You have traveled far, child. You must be exhausted.”
Aelfwyn nodded. After recounting her tale to the abbess she felt exhausted, drained.
Hilda, a handsome woman who looked well into her fifth decade, had listened to her tale in silence. She had not even flinched when Aelfwyn spoke of the rape, although Aelfwyn had seen the tension in her shoulders, the flash of outrage in her eyes.
Dressed in a flowing white habit, a blue veil covering her hair, the abbess was a sobering sight. She had a face that would have been beautiful in her youth: high cheekbones, bright blue eyes, and a sculpted mouth. But it was her manner that put Aelfwyn at ease: gentle and softly spoken with an air of quiet strength.
Aelfwyn wondered what the abbess thought of her slanderous allegations. The abbey was under the protection of the King of Northumbria. In her relations with Ecgfrith, the abbess had to tread carefully.
They sat alone together in the library—a cool, peaceful space—at a small table. A shelf with a handful
of leather bound volumes sat along one wall. The greasy smell of tallow hung in the air from the many candles burning along the walls.
“Do you believe me, Mother Abbess?” Aelfwyn ventured.
Hilda met her gaze and nodded. “There is no lie in your eyes, child.”
“You will not turn me over to the king?” Aelfwyn did not want to ask the question, but it burned within her. She had to know if she could trust Hilda.
The abbess’s expression grew stern, her mouth thinning. “Ecgfrith is not the man his father was. He is my lord, but that does not mean I condone what he has done.”
Aelfwyn watched her, silently impressed by Hilda’s open defiance of her king. She felt a pang of guilt for bringing such trouble to the abbess’s door. To risk so much for a complete stranger was generous indeed. Yet desperation made Aelfwyn seek assurance. “So I can remain here?”
The abbess smiled, her face softening. “A nun’s life is not for everyone. Of course, we will welcome you among us, if that is what you truly want, but you may stay here as an aspirant first. Once a few days have passed we will discuss whether you are ready to become a postulant, or whether a different life would suit you.”
Anxiety twisted Aelfwyn’s belly. “But there’s nowhere else for me to go. I can’t go back to Bebbanburg or Rendlaesham.”
Concern clouded Hilda’s deep-blue eyes. “Do not worry so,” she said, reaching forward and placing a cool hand over Aelfwyn’s. “No one is casting you out.”
Hilda rose to her feet with a rustling of crisp robes. “Come. It grows late, and you have not eaten. I will take you take you to the refectory. There will be food left over from supper.”
Aelfwyn nodded, grateful for the abbess’s kindness. She was indescribably weary and her temples throbbed.
