by Jayne Castel
“Let her go,” Bridei ordered.
“Upstart Pictling, go roll with the dogs!”
Bridei lunged. The meaty thud of his fist connecting with the young man’s nose caused Hea to cringe back. She heard the crunch of bone and sinew give way.
Rinan let go of Hea and staggered away, clutching his nose. Blood trickled through his fingers. Rinan cursed, pain muffling his voice. “You broke my nose!”
“Aye, and I’ll break your jaw too if you touch her again.”
The blond smith’s son stared back at him, his eyes glassy. “You want the little hōre, you can have her.”
Hea watched Rinan stagger off, still clutching his flattened nose. She hugged her thin arms around her torso, trembling from the ordeal.
Bridei watched until Rinan had disappeared, before he turned back to Hea, his expression cool. “Did he hurt you?”
“N … no,” she stuttered, suddenly feeling shaky and weepy. Hea blinked back tears and swallowed. She would not weep in front of Bridei mac Beli—the Pictish fosterling who lived in the Great Tower of Bebbanburg as King Ecgfrith’s ward. She wanted him to think her strong and brave—worthy of respect.
Behind Bridei, Heolstor huffed out a breath. “Rinan’s father will see you whipped for that.”
Bridei shrugged, grinning. “He deserved it.”
“Aye, but his father has Ecgfrith’s ear. You’ve just given the king a reason to lash out at you.”
Hea’s chest constricted at this news. She could not bear to see Bridei punished because of her.
Bridei must have witnessed the alarm on her face, for he cast his friend a censorious look and put a brotherly arm around Hea’s trembling shoulders.
“Come on. Let’s get you home.”
Chapter Two
Fair Punishment
Hea retrieved her scattered vegetables, and the three of them walked the last distance to her hovel.
The wattle and daub dwelling sat under the shadow of the northern guard tower in the corner of the fort, at the end of a row of houses. It was a squat, shabby structure—with a thatched roof that leaked in places—but it was the only home Hea had ever known, and she loved it. Unlike the surrounding hovels, hers had a little garden out the back, where her mother grew herbs and flowers. The garden, surrounded by a high paling fence, was crucial to their survival. Mother and daughter lived by selling posies of flowers and herbal remedies—yet Hea’s mother Lewren was also a seer, and some folk in Bebbanburg paid her for advice.
The aroma of vegetable stew and fresh griddle bread greeted them as Hea pushed open the door and led the way inside.
Lewren was standing at the fire pit in the center of the dark space, stirring a cauldron of pottage. She looked up as Hea and her companions entered, her expression sharpening when she saw her daughter’s flushed face and glistening eyes.
“Heahburh—what have you been up to?”
Hea winced—her mother only ever used her full-name when she had done something wrong. Lewren’s jade gaze hardened as it flicked from Hea to the two young men behind her.
“Rinan followed me home and grabbed me,” Hea spoke up before Bridei or Heolstor could answer on her behalf. “He scared me, but Bridei broke his nose.”
Hea watched her mother go still, before she drew herself up, her eyes narrowing into glittering slits.
Hea knew she was biased, but she thought her mother beautiful. Lewren was not a tall woman, yet she had presence: a proud stance, curvaceous build and thick, curly red hair that Hea envied. Her own mane was a garish, wild bush. Hea saw the way men’s eyes tracked her mother when they walked through the fort together. Yet, for all that Lewren had never taken a lover, or wedded. Any man who dared woo her was swiftly, and coldly, rebuffed.
Lewren never spoke of Hea’s father. Only once, years earlier, she had mentioned him—a warrior who went off to battle and never returned. Hea liked to think that her mother still loved him, and that was why she had never wanted another man.
“Don’t worry,” Bridei spoke up, chest swelling in pride. “He won’t bother Hea again.”
Lewren nodded curtly, her green eyes still burning. “And I thank you for that.”
Hea glanced behind her at her companions. Bridei was gazing at Lewren like a mooncalf, and Heolstor’s cheeks had gone pink. Envy stabbed her in the guts.
Why don’t they look at me like that?
She knew why—Bridei and Heolstor merely saw her as a child … for in reality that was what she was.
Lewren’s gaze shifted to Hea, her expression softening slightly. “You must keep your wits about you, daughter. Not all males are like these two.” She glanced back at the two lads, who were both grinning foolishly at the compliment Lewren had bestowed upon them.
They were not the first males Hea had seen act like fools around her mother. Lewren had an odd status in Bebbanburg; both revered and feared. She was furtive about her abilities, for now that Christianity had come to the north, her skills were seen by some as remnants of the old ways. Yet many folk here still believed in the old gods, and the king appeared content to allow a seer to reside inside his fort—as long as she did not make a nuisance of herself.
Even so, Hea had heard some folk refer to her mother as a ‘wicce’, an enchantress who practiced magic. She saw fear and hostility in their eyes when they named her thus, but Hea dismissed their mutterings. Her mother was simply gifted; she could see things others could not.
Lewren regarded the two lads in the doorway for a moment before she smiled. “Stay for the noon meal—there’s plenty of pottage, even for you two. I swear the pair of you are taller each time I see you. What are they feeding you in the Great Hall?”
Bridei smiled, an expression that made Hea’s stomach somersault. He had only recently entered manhood, but already he knew how to charm women. “Plenty of meat—the king says it makes his warriors strong.”
Lewren snorted and turned away to fetch wooden bowls for their meal. “Well, you’ll get no such fare here. Simple folk can only afford pottage.”
“You’re too free with your fists, lad.”
Ecgfrith, King of Northumbria gazed down at Bridei. The king’s hazel eyes were hard in the light of the cressets that burned behind the heah-setl—the high seat—a raised platform at the northern end of the hall within the Great Tower of Bebbanburg. His long, sharp-featured face was grim.
Standing at the foot of the high seat, Bridei shrugged. He knew the gesture was insolent, but he did not care. “Rinan deserved it.”
“And why’s that?”
“He was frightening a lass so I stopped him.”
The king snorted. “You’re my ward—not warden of this fort. I dish out punishment here.”
Bridei stared back at him, refusing to be cowed. He never enjoyed facing Ecgfrith in this hall, for it was the king’s domain. Built of pitted, red stone, the interior of the tower was a warm, airless space. Torches hung from braces on the walls, and four large fire pits burned day and night. There were few windows, just a few slits high up to let out smoke. Alcoves lined the circular chamber, their entrances shielded with richly detailed tapestries and plush fur hangings.
Ecgfrith let out a long sigh and leaned back in his carven throne, his long legs stretched before him. In his thirty-second year, Ecgfrith still had a youthful countenance despite that his short, sandy hair had started to recede at the temples of late. He dressed simply in a long, woolen tunic and leather breeches. He was tall and lean, although strong. His bare arms were finely muscled, and he gave off an aura of contained power. Bridei had seen the king at sword practice with his warriors; he knew Ecgfrith could fight, and fight aggressively.
When the king spoke once more, his voice was soft. “You disappoint me, Bridei … again.”
Bridei screwed his face up. What did he care? This man was not his king, or his father—although Ecgfrith acted like he was both.
“I took you in, at your father’s request,” Ecgfrith went on, as if he had not noticed
Bridei’s expression. “I let you sleep in my hall, eat at my table—and now you train with my men. Yet I get no gratitude. Instead you cause trouble.”
“I didn’t,” Bridei spat back. “I told you, Rinan—”
“Enough.” Ecgfrith’s voice lashed across the Great Hall. “Hold your insolent tongue.”
A collective gasp sounded in the cavernous space, issued from the clusters of retainers—the men, women, and children who formed the king’s household—that formed a semi-circle around the high seat.
Next to Ecgfrith, Queen Irmenburgh shifted uncomfortably upon her smaller chair, and cast a pained look at her husband. She was a pale, thin woman with brown hair pulled back into a braid wrapped severely around the crown of her head. Like her husband, she dressed simply, although her woolen tunic was finely made. A wooden crucifix rested upon her flat chest.
Bridei had always liked Irmenburgh. She was Ecgfrith’s second wife—his first had refused to consummate their marriage before fleeing south to run a convent little more than a year later. Bridei had been young at the time, but he remembered Aethelhild of the East Angles; a proud, raven-haired beauty who had defied Ecgfrith at every turn. Irmenburgh was different. She was sweet and gentle—a born peace-weaver. Bridei could see she was trying to meet her husband’s eye now, in an attempt to soothe the situation.
Ignoring her, the king’s cool gaze flicked to Bridei’s right, to where Rinan stood next to his father—a hulking smith with coarse straw-colored hair and a high-colored face, the result of too many nights at the meadhall.
Rinan now boasted two black-eyes, as well as a nose that looked like a boiled, smashed turnip. However, Bridei noted that Rinan also sported a swollen lip and a bruise on his lower jaw … he had not given him those. Bridei’s gaze flicked to Rinan’s father, Broga. He would not have wanted that man as his father—all of Bebbanburg knew that Broga was a bully.
Ecgfrith smiled at the smith’s son. “How do you wish to see Bridei punished?”
Bridei’s guts twisted at this, although he kept his expression neutral. A few yards away, to Bridei’s left, stood Heolstor. His friend’s usually good-natured face was strained, his blue eyes wide with worry. Catching Heolstor’s eye, Bridei suddenly wished he had not interfered with Rinan’s fun. Only that the sight of young Hea so terrified had made him act without thinking.
“A flogging,” Broga boomed, just as his son was opening his mouth to reply. “A public one, sire.”
Bridei’s breath rushed out of him. “I don’t deserve that,” he burst out. “I told you, he had it coming.”
Ecgfrith raised a hand to silence him, his gaze still upon Rinan. “A flogging sounds fair punishment. But we’ll make it outside the Great Tower, not in the market square. No need to bother common folk with this.”
A silence fell over the hall, and Bridei felt the gazes of all settle upon him.
When Ecgfrith spoke once more he was smiling. “Ten lashes … and Rinan can wield the whip himself, if he so choses.” The expression Bridei saw on Ecgfrith’s face then made him go cold. “Your punishment will take place now.”
Bridei stood in the center of the stableyard and waited for the flogging to begin.
Shirtless, his arms wrapped around a large pole where men usually hitched their horses, his wrists bound, he felt trussed up like a Yuletide goose ready to be spit-roasted. Worse still, all those he had grown upon among had gathered to watch. He spotted Aart a few yards away, grinning at him.
Bridei gritted his teeth. He would make these people pay for this … one day.
Hearing footfalls behind him, Bridei swiveled his head to see the king, Broga, and Rinan approach. The smith carried a large braided whip, of the type farmers used with oxen.
Bridei’s stomach twisted once more. He had been beaten before—many times in fact in the years since coming to foster at Bebbanburg—but Ecgfrith had never used the whip on him.
Ecgfrith gave him a thin smile. “Ready for your punishment?”
Bridei merely glared back at him.
The king gave a shrug and glanced over at Broga. “Give your son the whip and let us begin.”
The smith nodded and shoved the leather whip into Rinan’s hands. Oddly, the young man looked nervous. Sweat beaded his pale skin, and his swollen face made him look ill. Broga gave Rinan a feral look. “Flay his hide, boy.”
Rinan nodded, throat bobbing. He then unfurled the whip and stepped up behind Bridei.
Bridei turned back to the pole and schooled his face into a cold mask. He would not let them see him suffer. He would give none of them the satisfaction. He knew Heolstor was amongst the crowd but deliberately avoided looking his way. His friend would hate to see him flogged, and Bridei did not want to see pity in his eyes.
The first lash, when it came, burned a line of fire across his shoulders.
Bridei clenched his jaw and steeled himself for the next blow.
“Put some force into it,” Broga snarled. “I’ve seen a maid with a stronger arm.”
This drew some sniggers from the watching crowd. A moment passed, and Bridei could almost taste Rinan’s humiliation, before the whip lashed across his shoulders once more.
It really hurt this time, but Bridei swallowed his cry of pain, letting out a grunt instead.
“Is that it?” Broga’s rough voice reached him. “That’s the best you can manage?”
“I hit him as hard as I could, fæder,” Rinan mumbled. “I can’t—”
“Pathetic—step aside and let me show you how it’s done.”
Fear curled up from the pit of Bridei’s bowels. Broga was the strongest man in the fort. He would cut his back to ribbons.
When it was over, Bridei sagged against the pole, his breathing coming in labored gasps. He had done it—not uttered a word as that whip lashed across his back another eight times—only now his back felt as if it had been flayed open. Pain pulsed across his shoulders like a brand.
Aart stepped forward and cut the ties on Bridei’s wrists. Legs shaking under him, Bridei leaned against the pole and closed his eyes a moment. It took a monumental effort to remain upright, not to crumple into the dirt. Yet with the crowd of retainers still looking on, he would not give in.
After a few long moments, the waves of dizziness that crashed over him drew back, and Bridei opened his eyes. He pushed himself off the pole and turned to find Ecgfrith waiting for him.
Rinan and Broga stood a few yards behind him, looking silently on while their king had the last word.
“A little less cocky now?” Ecgfrith asked with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Ready to humble yourself?”
Bridei stared at him, realizing that the flogging had merely been a ruse—an excuse—for Ecgfrith. Just like Aart, he had been looking for a way to put Bridei in his place. Bridei mac Beli was becoming a threat to them all.
As understanding dawned, he gave Ecgfrith the most arrogant smile he could muster. “Before you … never.”
Chapter Three
Exile
Ecgfrith’s eyes widened, and he drew back as if struck.
“I am your king,” he replied, the slight rasp in his voice betraying his anger. “You will humble yourself before me—without question.”
Bridei drew himself up, ignoring the throbbing in his back as he held the king’s gaze. He knew he was playing with fire, but after the humiliation of the flogging he did not care. Years of resentment finally boiled to the surface. He’d had enough of pretending.
“You’re not my king,” he replied, “and you never will be. I am a Pict, and I swear allegiance to my father. No one else.”
The silence that settled over the yard was deathly—and when Ecgfrith broke it, his voice shook with rage. “Ungrateful dog. I have treated you like a son, and this how you repay me.”
Bridei’s lip curled. “Why would I be grateful to you? I never asked to come here—and you’ve never, for one moment, made me feel welcome.”
Ecgfrith’s gaze narrowed into slits, his
skin pulling tight over his cheekbones. A thrill of fear went through Bridei then. He was sure he had taken it too far—sure that Ecgfrith would have him executed for his insolence.
“I would slay you, here and now,” Ecgfrith ground out, “if I didn’t want to start a war with your father. However, my agreement with him is at an end. You are no longer welcome at Bebbanburg. Go home to him in disgrace like the whipped savage you are.”
Joy leaped like a hare in Bridei’s chest.
Ecgfrith was giving him the one thing he desired. He was no Angle, he would always be an outsider here. He had left his father’s fortress, Dundurn, when he was barely five winters old, and had not seen it since. A few years after Bridei’s arrival here, his mother had sickened, but Ecgfrith had forbidden his young fosterling to return to Dundurn to say goodbye.
Bridei had never forgiven the king for that—from that moment forward, hate had grown like a canker in his breast. And he had fed it, waiting for the day he would be free of his Northumbrian oppressors.
Now, Ecgfrith was handing it to him. Yet the Northumbrian king was so angry, he did not see the joy in his ward’s eyes, the disbelief on his face.
“Pack your bags and keep out of my sight for the rest of the day,” he snarled. “I want you gone from this fort by the time I rise tomorrow morning.”
“Sit still—this will only take longer if you fidget.”
Bridei nodded, although he responded through gritted teeth. “It hurts.”
Lewren made a clucking sound with her tongue. “Aye—I’m not surprised. Broga did a thorough job.”
Inhaling deeply, Bridei closed his eyes. He sat upon a stool in front of the fire pit in the healer’s smoky dwelling, while Lewren applied a paste of fresh woundwort to his back.
“It’ll hurt while I apply this,” she said after a few moments, her tone softening, “although the herb will numb the pain soon.”
