by Jayne Castel
Wind Song
BOOK TWO
THE KINGDOM OF NORTHUMBRIA
JAYNE CASTEL
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HE RULES THE NORTH
BUT SHE RULES HIS HEART
Northumbria, Britain—684 AD
Hea isn’t like other women. The feisty daughter of a seer, she lives alone in the fort of Bebbanburg and survives by selling flowers, herbs and potions. However, she has also inherited her mother’s gift—and when King Ecgfrith requests her skills she can’t refuse him.
Ecgfrith, the ruler of Northumbria, is having trouble with the Picts, the warlike people to the north. He needs a seer’s guidance in dealing with them. The Pictish king, Bridei mac Beli is demanding freedom from his Angle overlord.
Hea and Bridei already know each other. Bridei once fostered at Bebbanburg, and Hea has longed for him ever since. Now, eight years later, they meet again, and sparks fly. Arrogant and ambitious, Bridei is used to getting what he wants—and Hea discovers he’s the only man she can’t refuse.
Yet he’s a Pict and she’s an Angle. Bridei will do anything to win back his people’s land from Northumbria, and Hea has sworn loyalty to her king. As the shadow of war looms, it seems any chance they have at love is lost … or is it?
Historical Romances by Jayne Castel
DARK AGES BRITAIN
The Kingdom of the East Angles series
Night Shadows (prequel novella)
Dark Under the Cover of Night (Book One)
Nightfall till Daybreak (Book Two)
The Deepening Night (Book Three)
The Kingdom of the East Angles: The Complete Series
The Kingdom of Mercia series
The Breaking Dawn (Book One)
Darkest before Dawn (Book Two)
Dawn of Wolves (Book Three)
The Kingdom of Northumbria series
The Whispering Wind (Book One)
Wind Song (Book Two)
Lord of the North Wind (Book Three)
DARK AGES SCOTLAND
The Warrior Brothers of Skye series
Blood Feud (Book One)
Barbarian Slave (Book Two)
Battle Eagle (Book Three)
The Warrior Brothers of Skye: The Complete Series
Epic Fantasy Romances by Jayne Castel
Light and Darkness series
Ruled by Shadows (Book One)
The Lost Swallow (Book Two)
All characters and situations in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
Wind Song by Jayne Castel
Copyright © 2017 by Jayne Castel. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the author.
Published by Winter Mist Press
Edited by Tim Burton
Cover photography courtesy of www.shutterstock.com
Single Celtic knot vector image courtesy of www.pixabay.com
Fleuron vector image courtesy of Wikipedia Commons.
Maps courtesy of Wikipedia Commons.
Visit Jayne’s website and blog: www.jaynecastel.com
Follow Jayne on Twitter: @JayneCastel
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For Tim.
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Contents
Maps
Chapter One
Hea’s Hero
Chapter Two
Fair Punishment
Chapter Three
Exile
Chapter Four
Farewell
Chapter Five
The Seer of Bebbanburg
Chapter Six
At the King’s Table
Chapter Seven
Ecgfrith’s Game
Chapter Eight
The Shadow of War
Chapter Nine
The King and the Steward
Chapter Ten
Honeyed Words
Chapter Eleven
The Wild Night
Chapter Twelve
Mark My Threats
Chapter Thirteen
Opposite Sides
Chapter Fourteen
Cuthbert’s Counsel
Chapter Fifteen
Warrior and Bride
Chapter Sixteen
Market Square
Chapter Seventeen
War is Upon Us
Chapter Eighteen
Pawns between Kings
Chapter Nineteen
Into the North
Chapter Twenty
The Bastard
Chapter Twenty-one
Retreat
Chapter Twenty-two
The Valley of Death
Chapter Twenty-three
Nechtansmere
Chapter Twenty-four
Return to Dundurn
Chapter Twenty-five
Wise
Chapter Twenty-six
The King of the North
Chapter Twenty-seven
Slave and Savior
Chapter Twenty-eight
Who Needs a Man?
Chapter Twenty-nine
The Falls of Culloch
Chapter Thirty
The Rest of the World
Chapter Thirty-one
Mid-Summer Fire
Chapter Thirty-two
Truth
Chapter Thirty-three
You are Mine
Chapter Thirty-four
Lovers and Dreams
Epilogue
The Miracle
Historical background for Wind Song
Glossary of Old English (in alphabetical order)
Cast of characters (in alphabetical order)
More works by Jayne Castel
About the Author
Maps
“I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon,
In the round-tower of my heart,
And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in the dust away!”
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Chapter One
Hea’s Hero
Spring, 676 AD
“Pict turd—taste my blade!”
The wooden sword whistled through the air toward Bridei’s face. Rinan, the lad who wielded it, was nearly twice Bridei’s size and swung that blade with the full force of his resentment behind it.
Bridei dodged the blow and cut his own practice sword sideways, catching Rinan on the flank. The bigger lad, with straw-colored hair and a scowling face, stumbled. Grinning viciously, Bridei leaped forward and slammed the flat of his blade across the back of Rinan’s shoulders, sending him sprawling.
“No, taste mine.”
Rinan’s curses rang out across the practice yard. He fell to his knees and then scrambled for his sword. The other young warriors, who had gathered to watch the sparring, fell silent. Previously, they had been hooting, and heckling the pair. Rinan’s face had turned bright red.
A few feet away, Bridei’s friend Heolstor—his only friend among the group—laughed. “You showed him, Bridei.”
“Yes, he did.” A deep voice boomed across the yard. A tall, broad figure shoved his way through the milling crowd and strode across to where Rinan had just picked himself up off the ground.
&nb
sp; Aart, a warrior of around thirty winters with a short beard and wavy brown hair that curled around his shoulders, stopped before Rinan and Bridei. His blue eyes narrowed before he focused his attention upon Rinan. “You overreached, boy. You made it easy for him.”
Bridei tensed. Aart had a way of making you feel small, even if you won at swordplay. However, the warrior was not finished. “You can’t stand him,” he rumbled, “and you let your feelings override a warrior’s instinct. That makes you easy to kill.”
Rinan nodded, his gaze falling to his feet. His face glowed like an ember.
“He’s an upstart Pictling,” Aart continued, his tone mild, “and you don’t want him here … I understand that. But if you let your feelings get in the way, he’ll beat you every time.”
Aart swung around and punched Bridei hard in the stomach.
There was no warning—one moment the warrior had been speaking to Rinan—the next he struck like Thunor’s hammer. The blow knocked the wind clean out of Bridei. Gasping, he fell to his knees and clutched his belly.
“You keep your emotions on the inside,” Aart concluded, his voice still chillingly calm, “and you channel them. Your enemy should never see you coming.”
Bridei sucked in a painful breath. Eyes tearing with pain, he glanced up to see Rinan watching him, unable to hide the smirk on his face. Fury washed over Bridei in a hot tide, and he dropped his gaze to the dirt, listening to the muffled laughter of the other lads as they walked off.
When at last he could breathe, Bridei looked up to find all the others gone—including Rinan and Aart. Only Heolstor remained. The tall, broad-shouldered lad with carrot-red hair gave him a lopsided smile and spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “That was low. Aart is a shit.”
“Aye,” Bridei wheezed, climbing to his feet, “but I should have realized he’d do that—he’s been wanting to put me in my place for months.”
Heolstor gave him a sympathetic look. “You’ve been here a decade. You grew up with us all. How long before they accept you?”
Bridei brushed the dirt off his hands. “Never. Every time they look at me they see a northern savage. They’ll never view me any different.”
Heolstor frowned and cast a sour look in the direction that Aart had departed, toward the barracks. Then he turned back to Bridei, his expression brightening. “Come on—let’s go and get a pie from the market.”
Bridei gave a wry smile. Heolstor’s next meal was never far from his thoughts. Still, after a hard morning in the yard, Bridei was also hungry.
“Very well,” he replied. “Although we’d better hurry or they’ll all be gone.”
The pair of them walked from the training yard, past the orchard full of pink and white apple blossom, and out of the high gate into the outer perimeter of the fort. Bebbanburg—named after the wife of the man who had built this place—was a compact stronghold, built upon a rocky outcrop that looked out to sea. It had two main thoroughfares: the King’s Way, which led from the low to the high gate; and the Dragon’s Back, a street that ran the south to north length of the fort.
Bridei and Heolstor walked down the King’s Way, toward the market square. It was late morning, and the sounds of industry echoed over the fort: the call of vendors at market, the bleat of goats in a nearby byre, the chatter of women as they shopped, and the clang of iron from the smith’s forge—where Rinan’s father, Broga, worked.
Ahead, a crowd of men, women and children thronged the wide space before the low gate. It was the only area in the fort large enough for folk to congregate. Farmers, merchants and artisans hawked their wares there most days.
The pie stall sat in the south-east corner, and Bridei and Heolstor headed straight for it. Even from a distance, Bridei could see there were only a handful of pies left. He dug into the pouch at his belt and pulled out a half-thrymsa. It was his turn to pay.
He was half-way across the square, weaving in and out of clusters of women bearing wicker baskets, when he spotted a flash of yellow on the northern edge of the crowd.
Rinan had also come to the market after practice.
Yet he did not appear to be here for the pies. Instead, he was staring at a small, thin girl with frizzy, red hair who had just crossed in front of him. Bridei knew the girl—she was Hea, the daughter of a comely flower-seller. She appeared to be struggling under the weight of two heavy sacks of vegetables. Hea was a sweet, if clingy, creature who often followed Bridei and Heolstor around the fort like a lost puppy.
Rinan watched her with a look of concentration that made Bridei stop, mid-stride. Heolstor barreled into him, nearly knocking Bridei into a wagonload of cabbages.
His friend gave a grunt of frustration. “What is it?”
“Look over there,” Bridei replied, his rumbling stomach forgotten, and pointed across at Rinan. Heolstor’s gaze followed his, just in time to see Hea disappear into the crowd. A moment later, Rinan set off after her.
Bridei frowned. “What’s he up to?”
Hea was halfway home from market when she realized she was being followed.
Her arms were aching, for she carried two heavy, coarse hessian sacks: one full of turnips and carrots, the other full of onions. She regretted not bringing the little wooden cart her mother often used for market. However, she found herself ignoring the burning muscles in her shoulders and arms—instead casting nervous glances behind her as she walked.
A young man followed her along the Dragon’s Back.
Hea looked back once more, her pulse racing when she saw he had lengthened his stride and was now no more than ten paces behind her. She knew him—and that was why she feared him.
Broad and strong for his age with a mop of blond hair, Rinan was the son of the fort’s iron-smith. Her pursuer glanced up, his pale blue eyes gleaming, and seeing that she had noticed him, he grinned.
Hea’s home lay at the opposite end of the fort, not far from the northern guard’s tower. To reach it she had to walk along the length of the Dragon’s Back and then down a tangle of dirt alleys. Low timber, and wattle and daub houses marched by and the wooden outer palisade cast a deep shadow over the fort. Nonetheless, it had been a bright morning and the dirt street beneath Hea’s bare feet was warm from the sun. The sulfurous odor of simmering pottage and the scent of wood smoke hung in the still noon air, reminding Hea that her mother would be preparing their usual meal of barley and vegetable pottage—a thick stew they ate with hard cheese and slabs of griddle bread.
Hea had been looking forward to her noon meal, but now her appetite vanished.
She started to run. It was difficult weighed down by her two bags. At thirteen winters she was small and thin, with only a head of unruly red hair to distinguish her from the crowd of wild girls she usually prowled Bebbanburg’s streets with.
She heard a low snigger behind her, and the sound of Rinan’s heavy tread quickening. He was enjoying this game. He knew that when she turned right into the tangle of lanes that led down to Hea’s home, there would be few folk about.
What does he want?
She should have returned to the market square, but it was too late now. She would have to try and outrun him. Once she reached home she would be safe.
Sprinting, her bare feet flying across hard-packed dirt, Hea veered right and fled down a narrow alley. Washing festooned this lane, but she was so small that she did not need to duck to avoid it. She hoped the linen tunics and woolen hose that dangled overhead would slow Rinan down.
They did not.
She was near the end of the alley when a hand, strong from working alongside his father at the forge, fastened around her upper arm and yanked her backward.
Hea squealed and dropped her precious bags of produce. Turnips, onions, and carrots rolled across the ground. She flailed at Rinan with small, angry fists, pummeling at his broad chest. “Let me go, let me go!”
“Not before I get what I want.”
Rinan pushed her up against the wooden framed wall lining the lane. Hea gave a
shrill scream of terror, but the lad silenced her with a clumsy, wet kiss.
Tea struggled wildly. His hot breath and rough hands terrified her. This could not be happening—how had she let him catch her so easily? She tried to knee him in the cods, but he twisted away and her knee struck the hard muscle of his thigh instead.
“What are you doing?”
A low voice sounded behind them.
Rinan froze. Keeping his prey pinned against the wall, the smith’s son turned his head.
Heart fluttering like a moth trapped in a spider’s web, Hea peered around his bulk and saw two young men standing a few feet behind them. Her breath hitched in wordless relief when she recognized the lads: Bridei and Heolstor would save her.
Bridei—the one who had spoken—was tall and lean with a mop of dark hair and brown eyes. At sixteen winters, Bridei already turned women’s heads. Heolstor stood next to him: a heavy-set boy with pale, freckled skin and a shock of red hair that was even brighter than Hea’s.
Rinan grinned at them. “What does it look like?”
“Help,” Hea gasped, squirming under Rinan’s bruising grip.
Bridei shifted his gaze from Rinan a moment, to Hea’s face. His expression had been neutral before, but now his gaze narrowed. “Hea doesn’t want your tongue down her throat—leave her alone.”
Rinan snorted. “We’re having some fun. You’ll get your turn—you can just wait.”
“She doesn’t look like she’s enjoying herself to me,” Heolstor growled.
Rinan swiveled around further, so that he was half-facing the two lads, and spat on the ground. “Piss off.”
Hea struggled against Rinan’s iron grip, but he held her fast, pinned against the rough, wooden wall. All the while, he kept his gaze upon the two lads who were spoiling his amusement. Neither of them moved.
