by Jayne Castel
Lewren tensed as fragments of her own life intruded; if only she could forget her own past. She knew how such loss felt—the aching, the longing, for a man who would never love you. The rage, the bitterness that filled you afterward. A cruel companion over the years.
Lewren exhaled slowly, forcing back memories best kept buried. Instead, she continued to stroke her daughter’s heaving back.
“Hush, Hea,” she murmured finally. “Bridei never belonged at Bebbanburg. You must let him go.”
Her daughter continued to sob, giving no sign that she had even heard her.
Eight and a half years later …
Chapter Five
The Seer of Bebbanburg
Bebbanburg, Kingdom of Northumbria, Britannia
Autumn, 684 AD
The young woman with wild, red hair walked down to the water’s edge and cast a posy of violets into the churning sea. It was a chill, overcast morning and the great North Sea was the color of weather-beaten iron. The wind buffeted the solitary figure upon the sandy shore, tugging at her woolen cloak and whipping her curls into her eyes.
Hea paid it no mind; her gaze was upon the bright posy that now lay adrift upon the waves.
Violets had been her mother’s favorite flower—they would forever remind Hea of her.
Hea’s eyes filled with tears, blurring her vision.
A year had passed since her mother’s death, but the ache of loss in her heart did not ease. Lewren had been ill for many moons before the sickness that made her waste away to a skeleton finally took her. Hea and Lewren had tried everything to heal her, every herb and potion in their healer’s lore, but none of it had helped.
Even now, Lewren’s last words on her deathbed still echoed in Hea’s ears. Her mother had been so weak it was an effort to speak. She had lain back on the nest of furs that Hea propped under her shoulders, her once vibrant mane dull in the flickering light of the cresset on the wall above her.
Her hand, fragile and ice-cold, had gripped Hea’s with surprising strength.
“Daughter,” she rasped. “Don’t follow my path. It will only bring you pain.”
Hea had gazed down at Lewren, confused by her words. “Mōder? What do you mean?” she whispered, her chest aching at the sight of her mother so weak, so ill. The rail-thin ghost before her bore no resemblance to the woman who had always been her protector, her teacher.
“I’ve always been prideful,” Lewren gasped the words, each one a terrible effort. “Too much so.” She paused there, gathering her waning strength before continuing. “I loved your father, but he dismissed me for I was beneath him. I hated him for it, and the bitterness grew within me with each passing year. Now that hate is killing me.”
“No, mōder,” Hea had whispered, tears leaking from her burning eyes. “You’ll get better—you just need to fight it.”
“It’s too late for me now, but you must heed my words.” Her mother squeezed her hand so tightly that Hea’s finger bones creaked. It hurt, but she did not pull her hand free. “Don’t be a fool like your mother. Find yourself a good man, and make a family together. Sell flowers, heal folk, but cast aside your gift of sight. The old ways are disappearing; if you practice them, folk will turn against you. They’ll call you a wicce, and shun you.”
Hea had stared down at her mother. This was a shock. Lewren had always encouraged her to use her gift, to nurture it. Now she was telling her to cast it aside. Hea had not understood.
A year later, she still did not.
Turning away from the foaming waves, which had now dragged the posy of violets under, Hea walked across the broad strand of silver sand, climbed the reed-covered dunes, and walked toward the causeway.
Bebbanburg rose above her, a bristling silhouette of wooden and iron ramparts with tall guard towers at each corner. The fort spread across the length and breadth of the massive outcrop of stone that rose above the surrounding farmland and looked out to sea.
Hea climbed the causeway, passing through the low gate. She felt the appraising gazes of the guards as she did so—their hot, lustful looks. Yet they did not utter a word. None of them dared.
In a year, much had changed for Heahburh, daughter of Lewren.
For a while after her mother’s death she had lived quietly, doing as Lewren had bid: selling flowers and using her skills as healer. However, contrary to her mother’s advice, she had shunned male attention. She did not want any of the warriors who leered at her, or the farmers who flirted with her at market. They were rough, rude and charmless, and she would not give herself to any of them.
Her mother had told her to find a good man, and she would wait until she did.
Then, six moons after Lewren’s passing, in the midst of a chill spring, King Ecgfrith had sent for her.
For the first time, she had set foot inside the Great Tower of Bebbanburg, and knelt before the high seat—before the hazel-eyed king and his pale queen.
“I hear you bear a gift,” Ecgfrith had said, his gaze intense as he studied her. “The gift of foresight.”
Hea had met his gaze, her heart fluttering in her breast. Was this a trap? She knew the king was pious, although not as much as his wife, or his late mother. Was he looking to root out and get rid of those following the old ways?”
She had inhaled deeply and prepared to lie.
“I have need of a seer,” the king said quietly. “Can you help me?”
Hea swallowed and tried not to look shocked. Her gaze flicked to Queen Irmenburgh seated beside Ecgfrith. She had seen the queen often over the years, and always thought she had looked kind. Yet that morning her pretty face was stony, her blue eyes narrowed; her thin frame taut with displeasure.
Clearly, the king had not discussed this with his wife—or if he had, she had not given her approval.
“My mother had great talent as a seer,” Hea had replied, dropping her gaze to the rushes at her feet. “I’m not sure I’m her equal.”
She had glanced up to see the king was smiling. “A gift is a gift,” he said. “If you have it, you are of use to me.”
And that was that—overnight, Hea’s life at Bebbanburg changed. Gone were the leering looks and straying hands of men in the fort; gone were her fears that she would go hungry over the winter.
The king paid her a small leather purse of gold thrymsas once a moon, a small fortune to Hea.
In return, Hea sought answers for Ecgfrith; although sometimes the spirit world gave her confusing and worrying messages. The king was greedy for answers, and the shadowlands did not like the living interfering with them; Hea had to tread carefully.
Hea crossed the market square.
As she walked, she noted how some of the women here gave her wary looks. One or two even whispered together as they watched her, their expressions guarded. Her mother was right—even with the king’s protection, a seer was part of the old, dying, ways.
Halfway across the square, Hea heard her name called. She glanced up to see Fritha, the baker’s wife who sold fresh bread, cakes, and pies at market every morning.
“You look pale this morn, lass,” Fritha greeted Hea with a motherly smile as she approached her stall. “Does something ail you?”
Hea shook her head. “Mōder died a year ago today. The memory makes me melancholy, that’s all.”
Fritha’s kindly face grew serious. The baker’s wife had grown up with Lewren, and had been one of her closest friends. “Woden strike me down, I’d forgotten. Is it a year already?”
Hea attempted a smile and failed, she felt oddly tearful and empty today. “I know,” she replied huskily. “It feels like only yesterday to me.”
Fritha emerged from behind a mountain of bread and cakes and put an arm around Hea’s shoulders. “I know it doesn’t seem so now, but you will feel better with time.”
Hea nodded, letting out a long shuddering breath. Fritha had known loss too; both her daughters had died in infancy, leaving Fritha and her husband childless.
“Here.” Fritha
ducked back behind her stall and retrieved a loaf of bread. “Get yourself home and have something warm to eat.”
Hea’s mouth quirked. Fritha, a portly woman with florid cheeks, thought a good meal healed most ills. However, Hea had already broken her fast before going down to the shore and was not hungry. Even so, she took the bread gratefully; Fritha’s baking was the best in the fort.
She was just about to bid her friend good day and continue on her way across the market square toward the Dragon’s Back, when a clamor behind her made Hea turn.
The pounding of hooves up the causeway beyond the low gate.
As the women watched, a company of horsemen rode into Bebbanburg.
Hea instantly realized they were not the king’s men, nor were they Angles or Saxons. Instead, these men wore breeches of plaid. Some were bare-chested, while others wore leather vests, leaving their muscular arms, painted in swirling blue designs, bare. Their hair, mostly long and dark, flowed down their backs. They carried iron swords and square shields covered in leather and painted in tribal designs. Around their shoulders many of the warriors wore plaid cloaks, rather than fur mantles.
Hea’s belly contracted. Picts.
This was the first time she had seen a company of warriors visit Bebbanburg from the wild lands to the north—lands that Ecgfrith of Northumbria ruled.
She had not seen a Pict in a long while, not since her beloved Bridei departed. Here in Bebbanburg, he had stood out amongst the blond, brown and red-haired men. Yet this was a company of tall, lean warriors with raven-black hair and sharp-features. It brought back memories of the longing that Hea had long buried.
Then she saw him.
He rode at the head of a company of around thirty warriors, back ramrod straight, shoulders thrown back in supreme male confidence. Years had passed, but Hea would have known him anywhere.
She stopped breathing.
At sixteen winters, Bridei mac Beli had been striking. At nearly twenty-four, he was devastating. He was still lean, but his frame had filled out with muscle and his shoulders had broadened. He wore his hair shorter than some of the others, so that it curled around the top of his shoulders. His expression was cool, arrogant. More than that, he carried himself like a man; gone was any gaucheness of youth.
Heolstor rode at his side. Like Bridei, the red-haired lad Hea remembered had transformed into a broad, fire-haired warrior. Swirling blue designs decorated the right side of Heolstor’s face, adding to his forbidding presence.
Neither man saw her.
The Picts thundered through the square, sending townsfolk, dogs, and fowl scattering, and entered the King’s Way. Hea watched them go, her heart pounding.
“What are Picts doing here?”
Hea heard the fear in Fritha’s voice, and tore her gaze away from the horsemen, who were heading toward the high gate. “Worry not,” she said with a soothing smile. “Ecgfrith still rules southern Pictland, does he not?”
Fritha grunted, her gaze still on where the last of the Pict warriors disappeared up the King’s Way. “Aye, but why should any of them need to come here?”
“Perhaps to pay tribute?”
Fritha looked unconvinced. “More likely to cause trouble, I’d wager.”
Chapter Six
At the King’s Table
Bridei mac Beli, King of the Picts, strode into the Great Tower of Bebbanburg, looking neither left nor right. Instead his gaze remained fixed upon the man who stood waiting for him upon the high seat.
Ecgfrith of Northumbria had not changed much over the years.
His hairline had receded, and his body was leaner, but he still had that long, watchful face and the pitiless eyes Bridei remembered.
Ecgfrith’s was a face Bridei had grown up hating; a face he had longed to see again on the field of battle. How many nights had he imagined looking into those calculating eyes right before he dug his sword into Ecgfrith’s guts? Too many to count—yet here he was in Bebbanburg to give the Northumbrian king one chance for peace.
Just one chance was all Ecgfrith would get.
“Lord Bridei son of Beli.” Ecgfrith greeted him as he approached. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”
Beside the king, Irmenburgh had also risen to her feet, her thin face creased in a smile of welcome. The warmth in her eyes told Bridei she was pleased to see him, yet despite his cordial greeting, Ecgfrith’s eyes told a different tale.
The king hid it well, but Bridei saw the irritation that seethed just beneath the surface.
Bridei inclined his head. “Lord Ecgfrith.”
The Northumbrian king studied him for a moment, analyzing his face as if looking for a weakness to exploit. A heartbeat later he smiled, although the expression never reached his eyes. “This is an occasion indeed, to have you in Bebbanburg once more.”
After you exiled me.
In truth, Ecgfrith had done him a great favor in banishing him from Northumbria. Bridei had traveled north, arriving at Dundurn to find his father, Beli, in ill-health. They had little time together before his father died, but Bridei was glad for the months they had shared. During that time, Beli had spoken of Bridei’s mother, a Northumbrian noblewoman—daughter to King Edwin of Deira—and of the sudden sickness that had taken her away years earlier.
After his father’s passing, Bridei set about learning how to become king of the north.
“A visit south was long overdue,” Bridei replied. He had not knelt upon entering the Great Hall, nor had he addressed Ecgfrith as ‘milord’ or ‘sire’. In his eyes, they were equals, although he knew Ecgfrith would not see it that way. He noted the way the Northumbrian king’s eyes hardened after Bridei had spoken, but the king forced a smile.
“If you had sent word ahead, I would have organized a great feast to welcome you. However, if you and your men will join us for nón-mete, I will see our finest barrels of mead opened.”
“I do not expect you to go to any trouble on our account,” Bridei replied, “but I will take up your offer of a meal. If you would host us overnight as well, I would appreciate it.”
Ecgfrith inclined his head. “You’ve traveled far just to remain here one night. Stay a few days at least, and enjoy my hall’s hospitality. Your men are welcome to stable their horses with mine, and sleep in this hall.”
Despite Ecgfrith’s complaint that Bridei had not given him enough notice, the king’s household put on an impressive noon meal that day.
Servants and slaves carried in wheels of cheese and legs of cured pork to sit amongst platters of braised onions, loaves of crusty bread, and tureens of hot bean stew. Long tables, arranged in a horseshoe around two of the four hearths, lined the hall. Daughters of the king’s thegns circled the hall, pouring wine, ale, and mead for the feasters.
The rise and fall of voices, and the aroma of bean stew had greeted Bridei as he returned from the stables. He moved across the hall to the high seat, where Ecgfrith had invited him to join the king’s table for the noon meal. Dogs skulked around the perimeters of the hall; lean and shaggy wolf hounds that eyed the food hungrily. A pall of smoke hung low over the tables, making Bridei’s eyes water after the fresh air outdoors.
Bridei glanced back at Heolstor, who followed him across the floor. “Happy to be home?” He spoke to Heolstor in the tongue of the Picts, as he had done for years now.
The red-haired warrior snorted, answering in the same language. “Feels as foreign to me as it does to you.”
“But you still have kin here. Your mother is still alive, is she not?”
Heolstor nodded. “She slapped my face when I approached her earlier—I don’t think she was pleased to see me.”
Bridei smirked. “You’ll make peace with her before you go.”
Heolstor’s raised a ruddy eyebrow. “You don’t want to hear the name she called me.” He gave a shrug, although Bridei marked the hurt that flashed across his face. “I don’t think I’ll bother with her again.”
The two men crossed the hall together and
stepped up on the high seat. Bridei took a seat halfway down the long table, with Heolstor to his right, and turned his attention to the king—but Ecgfrith did not meet his eye. Instead his gaze flicked past him, resting upon a point beyond Bridei’s left shoulder.
Curious, Bridei turned and saw that Ecgfrith was watching a woman cross the floor.
Bridei stared at her.
Chin raised, shoulders back, the young woman glided like a queen across the rushes. Her hair was unbound, signifying she was unwed—and what hair it was. Dark, springy, red curls cascaded over her shoulders, framing a pale face. She was small in stature, yet he could see the lush curves beneath the green woolen tunic she wore. The tunic was girded at the waist with a belt of plaited leather. Around her neck, she wore a heavy amulet, made of bronze and studded with garnets.
Bridei’s stared. It was a seer’s amulet.
As the young woman drew closer, her gaze met Bridei’s, as if pulled by the weight of his own stare. She was striking rather than beautiful he realized, for her moss-green eyes were slightly too far apart and her mouth a little too full for her finely-boned face; yet she was mesmerizing, and Bridei could not take his eyes of her.
With a jolt, he realized he knew this woman.
She was Heahburh, daughter of Lewren.
May the Nameless one take him—he could not believe how she had changed.
The girl he remembered was thin and coltish with a frizzy mane of hair that was a garish shade of red. He remembered comparing her unfavorably to her comely mother, yet his memory of Lewren of Bebbanburg paled next to this wench.
Her cheeks flushed under his scrutiny, those full lips parting slightly before she shifted her gaze to the head of the table. She stopped before the high seat and curtsied.
