by Jayne Castel
Bridei sucked his breath in, forcing himself not to shift on the stool as needles of stinging pain lanced across his shoulders. “Are the cuts deep?”
“One or two are. You’ll bear a couple of faint scars—you’re lucky it was only ten lashes.”
Bridei snorted and immediately regretted the action. The cuts on his back pulsed in time with his heartbeat. “I thought he’d grab the whip and give me a few more after Broga was done.”
“After you insulted him?” Lewren added, disapproval in her voice. They were alone in the hovel; Hea was out collecting herbs in the meadows beyond Bebbanburg. “You’re lucky he didn’t take your head off.”
Bridei did not disagree with her. He knew just how fortunate he was, and was still reeling at how fate had just twisted in his favor. Had he not been complaining to Heolstor that morning how he would never be accepted here?
Instead, Ecgfrith had given him his freedom.
Lewren worked for a few moments more, her fingers moving gently over his back. There had been nights when Bridei had lain awake in his alcove in the Great Tower and imagined the fair Lewren’s hands on him—just not like this. He was in too much pain to be gauche or embarrassed by her proximity.
Lewren might have been nearly old enough to be his own mother, but Bridei—like most of the lusty young men in the fort—had secretly fantasized about plowing her. A woman of such sensual beauty could surely teach a young man a thing or two in the furs. However, fantasy was as far as Bridei had ever gotten; Lewren was as untouchable as the cold bright stars in the night sky.
“There,” Lewren said finally. “As long as you keep them clean and dry, the cuts should heal quickly.”
Bridei rose to his feet, retrieved his linen tunic and gingerly put it on. Each movement was agony, and he hoped the numbing effect of the woundwort would start to work soon.
He turned to the healer, favoring her with a lopsided smile. “Thank you, Lewren. You and Hea have always been kind to me.”
Lewren held his gaze, her expression clouding. “Does Hea know you’re leaving?”
Bridei shook his head. “Can you tell her when she gets back?”
“She’ll be upset.”
Bridei gave an apologetic shrug, wincing as he did so. “I know she will … but none of us can fight fate.”
Lewren’s mouth thinned, and Bridei saw a shadow flit across those jade eyes. “Aye,” she murmured, “but it’s always women who pay the price.”
Dusk was settling over the fort of Bebbanburg, a pink-hued sky that stretched out to where the eastern horizon merged with the dark sea, when Bridei stepped out upon the Dragon’s Back. Despite his sore shoulders, a grin spread across his face.
This time tomorrow, I’ll be free—and far from here.
He was halfway along the dirt street when he spotted a small, thin figure with an unruly mop of bright, red hair hurrying toward him. Hea was barefoot, as always, and carried a basket full of greenery under one arm. She wore a worn, brown wealca—a long, tubular dress with clasps at the shoulders. Her moss-green eyes were wide as she approached him. “Bridei! I’ve just heard. Is it true you’re to be banished?”
Bridei stifled a groan. He had hoped to avoid this awkward encounter.
“Wes hāl, Hea,” he greeted her, forcing himself to look glum about the situation. “Aye—I’m to leave at first light tomorrow.”
“Folk are saying you were whipped.”
“I was, but your mother has taken care of that. Don’t worry—I’ll mend.”
Hea stopped before him, craning her neck up to met his eye. She was an odd-looking wee thing, with a mouth too big for her face, and huge eyes, slightly too far apart. She was also thin and under-developed for her age—not yet showing signs of womanliness—although that had not deterred Rinan. Maybe she would grow into her looks, but she was not a beauty like her mother.
Hea stared at him, her eyes filling with tears. “Woden, no,” she whispered, invoking the name of the father of the old gods—one still worshipped by a few in Bebbanburg. “I don’t want you to leave.” She wrung her hands together, her thin frame quivering from the force of emotion that coursed through her. Bridei watched her, something odd twisting deep within his chest at the pitiful sight.
She was such a sweet creature, a force of nature.
For years now, Hea had shadowed him and Heolstor. Initially, they had been annoyed by the clingy, red-haired imp, but of late he had found himself less and less bothered by her presence.
With a jolt, he realized he would miss Hea, almost as much as he would Heolstor.
“But Bebbanburg is your home,” she whispered. “Do you even remember where you’re from?”
Bridei smiled. Memories of Dundurn were still etched upon his mind. “Aye, I remember my father’s fort, as if I just departed yesterday.”
Her eyes widened. “Is it very different to here?”
He nodded before continuing on his way up the Dragon’s Back. Hea fell into step beside him. “Bebbanburg is made of wood and sits upon a great rock, whereas Dundurn is stone; a fort built atop a tall, green hill.” He paused here and cast his mind back to those early years, when he had run free and wild, and his mother had still been alive. “The wind is different there too,” he said after a moment, a wistful smile spreading across his face. “Here, on the edge of the sea, the wind shouts and roars like an angry god. Dundurn sits inland, surrounded by forests, lochs, and burns, and there the wind whistles and sighs. I used to lie awake at night in my father’s broch and listen to its song.”
Hea glanced sideways at him, her face a picture. “It sounds magical,” she breathed.
Bridei’s smile widened. “It is.”
Bridei left Hea outside the high gate and entered the inner palisade. He had muttered an awkward goodbye and sloped off, although he could feel her gaze boring into his back as he walked.
Bridei did not look back—it was easier that way.
He walked past the guards clad in boiled leather and iron helmets, spears at the ready, and into the wide yard beyond. The sight of the pole in its center, where he had been whipped earlier, made him tense, as did the Great Tower and the oppressive shadow it cast.
Gritting his teeth, he veered right toward where a complex of low slung stables, barracks and store houses crouched. He would not go back into that tower; instead he would gather what he could from the stores and sleep in the stables tonight.
Chapter Four
Farewell
Dawn rose over Bebbanburg—a grey, foggy sunrise. Mist curled around the base of the Great Tower as Bridei stood next to the trough and splashed icy water over his face. The air smelt rich with the brine-scent of the sea and the aroma of damp earth.
Excitement fluttered up under Bridei’s ribs as he breathed in the crisp, salty air.
Finally … I’m leaving.
The wounds on his back still hurt, although after Lewren’s healing the pain had subsided to a dull throb. Bridei was alone; no one had risen early to see him off. Ecgfrith had made it clear that when he rose from his alcove he expected to see his ward gone—and for once, Bridei was happy to obey him.
Still, after all these years, it felt odd—and more than a little hollow—to leave so quietly. He had lived longer here than he ever had at Dundurn. He had not spoken the tongue of his people in years. The language of Pictland was far different to the guttural tongue of the Angles and the Saxons: Englisc. He would be rusty, but not only that, he had gotten used to the Angle ways. Even though he gritted his teeth through prayers before supper each night—a ritual which as a member of the highborn he could not escape—it was now part of his life. It had taken him a long while to grow accustomed to Bebbanburg, but he realized his return to Dundurn would be just as strange.
Deep in thought, Bridei re-entered the stables and walked to the stall where his stocky, grey mare Léoma—Ray of Light—stood waiting. Léoma had been a gift upon his thirteenth spring, from the king himself to celebrate Bridei’s passing into manhood.
The other young warriors received stallions, or at the very least geldings, but Ecgfrith had made a point out of gifting Bridei a filly. The other warriors had teased him mercilessly over it, but Bridei had paid them no mind. Three years on, and Léoma and he were a partnership. The horse was one of the few close friends he had here.
“There you are.”
A young male voice, rough with sleep, greeted Bridei. He turned to see Heolstor stride into the low-slung building. His red hair tousled, and his face pinched and tired, Heolstor was dressed in leather breeches, a long woolen tunic, and a traveling cloak—and he carried a leather pack under one arm.
Bridei frowned. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m coming with you.”
Bridei snorted, although he was touched by his friend’s loyalty. “You can’t—Ecgfrith won’t like it.”
“He hasn’t forbidden anyone from joining you.”
Bridei raised an eyebrow. “And your mother’s going to let you?”
Heolstor strode over to where his gelding awaited in the stall opposite. He picked up the saddle from its rack and slung it over his horse’s back. “She doesn’t know. Anyway, I’m old enough to choose my own path.”
Bridei watched his friend, incredulous. He had known Heolstor a long while and had always believed his friend, although loyal, to be the sort who would never go against his parents, or his king’s will.
Still, he felt he had to make Heolstor see sense. He could be loyal to a fault. “You’ll make an enemy of Ecgfrith for life, if you join me.”
Heolstor met Bridei’s gaze over his horse’s withers. His expression belonged to someone much older, as if he had spent most of the night pondering his decision. Bridei could see the tension in his face. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
“But you don’t know what Pictland is like, you might hate it …”
Heolstor shrugged, turning his attention back to the girth he was tightening. “I’m sure folk won’t be that different to here.”
“Many folk will never have seen someone who looks like you before,” Bridei replied. He had to be sure Heolstor knew what he was getting himself into. “They’ll stare like you’ve got three heads.”
Heolstor merely laughed. “And you’ll tell them to mind their manners.”
Their gazes met once more, and Bridei grinned. Heolstor was the only one he trusted enough in this fort to let his guard down with. For the first time, he let his excitement at Ecgfrith’s decision show on his face.
Heolstor grinned back. “Come on—let’s get moving.”
Bridei stepped into Léoma’s stall, greeting her by sliding a hand down her neck. She was undergoing her spring molt, and fine, grey hairs came away in a great handful, causing Bridei to cough. There was not time to groom her properly this morning though. Bridei needed to be well away from the fort by the time the king rose from his furs.
As he tightened the girth to Léoma’s saddle, Bridei cast another glance at his friend.
Heolstor had finished saddling his gelding and was leading it out of the stall. He carried a light, iron sword at his side and a seax—a long fighting dagger—sheathed across his stomach, Angle and Saxon style.
Heolstor tied the pack he had brought behind the saddle. “I’ve packed us some food,” he announced. “It’s not much—just bread, cheese, and some salted pork—but we can hunt on the way.”
Bridei nodded. He too had packed some food, and had also brought his longbow and a quiver of arrows with him.
The young men led their horses out of the stables and mounted. Then they rode across the yard to the high gate. The guards flanking it, faceless behind iron helmets, watched wordlessly as the pair passed through the gate and clip-clopped away down the sleeping King’s Way toward the low gate.
Bridei inhaled the faint scent of wood-smoke and baking bread. It was still early. The sun was rising over the sea to the east, a glow through the encircling mist—promising good weather for the first day of their journey north.
Halfway down the King’s Way, Bridei glanced back at Heolstor. The young man was staring ahead, his face more serious than Bridei had ever seen it. Although he was attempting to be brave, Bridei knew Heolstor was struggling with the consequences of his decision.
“There’s still time, you know,” Bridei said, keeping his voice low in the dawn hush. “You can change your mind.”
Heolstor looked at him, his blue eyes hardening. “You’re not leaving me behind.”
“But this is your place, these are your people.”
Heolstor’s jaw clenched before he glanced away. “My loyalty is to you.”
Bridei stared at him, momentarily lost for words. His throat constricted, and he turned his attention back to where the King’s Way widened out into the market square ahead. Heolstor was the closest thing he had to family in the fort. He and his mother Geisla were the only folk who had welcomed him into the king’s hall. Life here would have been cold and lonely without them.
Bridei cleared his throat. “It’s a long, hard ride north—are you ready for it?”
Heolstor’s answering smile lit up the misty morning like a Yuletide blaze. “I can’t wait.”
Bridei turned his attention back to the empty road ahead. “What shall we tell the guards at the gate, if they ask? They’ll be expecting me to ride out alone.”
“Just say Ecgfrith has decided to rid himself of me too,” Heolstor replied. “A friend of an upstart Pictling is no friend of his.”
A small, cloaked figure awaited them in the market square.
Hea stood, clasping a threadbare, woolen cloak about her, watching the horsemen approach. Around her, the first farmers and merchants were setting up stalls for the morning’s trade. The low rumble of conversation drifted across the square toward the riders.
Heolstor let out a low groan upon spying Hea. “What’s she doing here?”
Bridei sighed. Likewise, he did not want to see Hea this morning. He hoped she would not make a fuss, or start weeping. He just wanted to leave quietly—and quickly.
He drew up Léoma next to Hea and looked down at her pale face. Her eyes gleamed in the dawn light.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said gently. “It just makes this harder.”
Her eyes glittered with tears and her chin trembled, but she did not start to weep. “I had to say goodbye,” she whispered. Her gaze flicked to Heolstor, who had drawn his gelding up next Bridei and was now shifting impatiently in the saddle. “To both of you.”
“Goodbye then.” Bridei smiled down at her. “Live well.”
She made a soft, choking sound, as if swallowing a sob, and nodded.
“Goodbye, imp,” Heolstor added with a half-smile, using the name he had bestowed upon her years earlier when he had found her a nuisance. “Look after yourself.”
With that, the two young men urged their horses forward and rode toward the low gate. Unlike the high gate above, which had been opened in preparation for Bridei’s departure, the heavy oaken and iron gates—the only entrance through the outer palisade—were still closed.
The guards here watched Bridei approach. With a curt nod, one of them gestured to his companions to unbar and open the gates. They observed Bridei curiously, their gazes flicking to Heolstor. Bridei saw the interest on their faces, yet none of them moved to stop his companion, perhaps thinking the king had given permission for the Pictish lordling to travel with an escort.
“Good riddance,” one of them muttered as Bridei and Heolstor rode out of Bebbanburg and down the steep causeway beyond.
Hea stood in the midst of the market square, oblivious to the stall-holders setting up for the day around her. Instead, she stared after the two young men on horseback as they rode through the low gate: one tall and lean, with hair the color of a raven’s wing; the other stocky with pale skin and a shock of red hair.
She could not believe Bridei and Heolstor were leaving—that they would never come back.
Hea remained there for a whil
e, staring after them, even once they had disappeared onto the causeway that led down to the farmland below. A man carrying a sack of barley jostled her as he passed by, jolting Hea from her reverie. Barely noting the grunt of apology he gave her, she turned and woodenly walked from the square.
The Dragon’s Back was quiet at this time of morning; just a few early-risers hurrying off to get choice items from market, before the rest of the fort descended upon it.
Hea paid none of them any mind.
This is all my fault.
Bridei would still have been here, if he had not broken Rinan’s nose. An ache took up residence in Hea’s chest, and by the time she reached her mother’s hovel, tears were streaming down her face.
Bridei had been the only boy she had ever taken an interest in, and her misery now was so great that she felt as if he would surely be the last. She felt as if a great mailed fist was squeezing her heart.
Hea burst in through the wattle door, rushed past where her mother was kneading bread on a table to the right of the fire pit, and threw herself onto the pile of furs at the back of the space.
“It’s not fair,” she wailed.
Then, she began to sob as if her heart would break.
Lewren had not spoken at the sight of her daughter’s abrupt, tearful entrance. However, she knew the reason for it.
With a sigh, she dusted off her floury hands and crossed the space to where Hea lay face-down in the furs. Her daughter’s shoulders shook violently, and although her sobs were muffled, Lewren heard the raw pain.
Pity twisted in her breast, and she lay a hand on Hea’s back, gently stroking her. For a while she just let her weep, for there was little she could say to change things. She had known that Hea had developed an infatuation for the handsome, young Pict, and had also noted that he did not return the sentiment.
It’s for the best, she thought. There’s little point pining after someone who does not want you in return.
Bridei mac Beli was the son of a Pictish king, and his destiny lay far from here. It was better that the bond between him and Hea was severed now. Her daughter was young enough to recover, to forget about him in time.
