by Jayne Castel
Hea watched the king, noting the way his tone and expression belied his words. He was not pleased to see Cuthbert at all.
Ignoring the king’s coolness, Cuthbert turned to Ecgfrith. “News reached Lindisfarena that concerned me, milord.”
“Really?” Ecgfrith took a sip from his cup of wine. “What news was that?”
“I heard that you have gathered your fyrd, the biggest army you’ve ever called to your side.”
Ecgfrith nodded. “What of it?”
“So the rumors are true then? You are marching to war against the Picts?”
Ecgfrith held the prior’s gaze, his own narrowing. “It would seem so, but surely you didn't make a special trip here just to ask me this?”
Cuthbert shook his head. His bow-shaped mouth pursed. “I came to counsel against such an act, milord,” he replied quietly. “Few have gone against the northerners and won.”
A chill silence settled across the table. The rumble of conversation died away upon the high seat. Hea glanced around, noting the different expressions on the faces of those present. Ecgfrith looked vexed, while his wife’s eyes gleamed. She was staring at Cuthbert, nodding vigorously at his words. However, the king ignored her.
Further down the table, Rinan was frowning, his meaty hands clenched upon the table before him. The other thegns present shifted nervously in their seats. All of them sensed a battle of another kind looming.
Ecgfrith toyed with his cup, before his gaze settled upon Cuthbert once more. “I find your lack of faith in the Northumbrian army disturbing, prior.”
Cuthbert gave a pained look. “It’s not that, sire. I just question the worth of marching north to defend lands that have never truly been ours. The world north of here is savage. Even if you win a battle against Bridei mac Beli and his horde, you won’t be able to hold back the tide against the Picts forever. The Romans tried and failed too, remember?”
Hea looked down at the trencher of stew before her. She agreed wholeheartedly with the prior. Over the past few months, she had tried repeatedly to turn Ecgfrith away from this path, but he would not be moved. For the king it had become a matter of pride. Bridei’s father, Beli, had submitted to Ecgfrith, accepted him as his over-lord—why could not Bridei?
Ecgfrith’s position was clear: the King of Northumbria ruled the north, and if Bridei could not accept that Ecgfrith had no choice but to go to war against him.
“The prior speaks wisely, sire,” Oswald spoke up then, his voice low and sure. “War with the Picts should be a last resort.”
“So you think he should stand back and let those savages defy him?” Rinan challenged from further down the table. The young priest flushed and opened his mouth to respond. However, the king forestalled him.
“Well said, Rinan.” Ecgfrith raised his cup to his lips and took a sip. “Too long has Bridei flouted my rule. Since winter, news has reached me of numerous raiding parties into my lands. He is deliberately baiting me, goading me.”
Cuthbert frowned. “And so, you shall give him what he wants?”
Ecgfrith shook his head. “I must defend our borders, as my father would have—as any man worthy of leading must. Would you have your king act as a coward? Would you have me offer up my arse for this Pict?”
Cuthbert tensed at the king’s crudeness. But when he replied his tone was calm. “I merely ask you to think carefully before marching north to war. I feel it is folly.”
The king lowered his cup to the table with a thump. “I have heard enough, prior. Let us speak of something else.”
Cuthbert nodded, although his face was pained. He shared a glance with Oswald—one of weary resignation. Looking on, Hea felt desperation tug at her. Prior Cuthbert was highly respected, yet the king would not take his counsel. What hope was there that war could be avoided?
The meal resumed, as did the rise and fall of conversation in the hall around them. A woman, one of the thegn’s wives, circuited the table with a ewer of wine and refilled their cups. She was heavily pregnant, her swollen belly thrusting before her as she moved from person to person. The sight of her reminded Hea of her own fears, just a few months earlier. She had been terrified that her one night with Bridei would leave her with child. Yet when her moon’s flow came a few days later, her relief had been mixed with a little sadness.
Bridei was truly out of her life now—there was nothing of him left behind in Bebbanburg.
She glided like a wraith through the valley.
Steep, craggy hills studded with grey rock rose up either side, and the sky was a hard blue strip overhead. A carpet of bloodied and broken bodies covered the bottom of the ravine. The air reeked like a slaughter pen.
Hea’s gorge rose and she stopped, her gaze sweeping over the grisly scene. There were Angles among the dead, but the Picts far outnumbered them. Dark haired men in their prime littered the valley floor, their bare limbs smeared with blue woad, eyes staring sightlessly up at the sky.
Shuddering, a warm wind in her face, she glanced up and saw a standard fluttering in the wind above the battlefield: a red and yellow flag.
Northumbria.
Hea’s eyes flickered open.
Ecgfrith was sitting opposite, watching her intently. The moment their gazes met, he spoke. “What did you see?”
Hea drew in a shaky breath. Ecgfrith was so demanding. He always pounced on her too soon after she reemerged from a dream state. He did not seem to understand how much it exhausted her. Each time she ventured into the shadow world it cost her. Often, she would feel jaded and weary for days afterward. Even now, she felt as if she could lie down and sleep for days. However, the king had no patience for that. He wanted answers.
Hea inhaled, gathering her scattered thoughts and bringing herself back to the present. After what she had just seen she felt torn—and for the first time ever considered lying to the king. So much death … so much pain. It was such needless bloodshed—on both sides. Yet after a few moments she forced herself to tell him the truth.
“I saw it, milord. I saw the battle … and I saw Northumbria victorious.”
His expression grew taut. “How do you know we were the victors?”
“I saw this kingdom’s flag flying high above the battlefield. I saw the bodies of your enemy littering a bleak valley.”
The words sounded so matter-of-fact, so cold. She did not go into details of just how harrowing that sight had been.
Meanwhile Ecgfrith was grinning. It was a savage expression. His hazel eyes gleamed. “This is good news indeed.”
Directly after the feast with Cuthbert and his monks, Ecgfrith had demanded she retrieve her seeing drum and meet him in his alcove. Hea sensed that despite his brave face, Cuthbert’s visit had sowed a seed of doubt. He wanted some assurance that he was taking the right path.
Unfortunately, Hea had just delivered him the news he had been hoping for.
War was looming, a great storm that not even God could hold back. The Northumbrian fyrd was mighty. Just the day before, she had ventured outside the walls of Bebbanburg and seen the huge encampment gathering at the base of the fort; it now spread out in a great, dark mantle across the meadows.
She could not imagine that Bridei had managed to draw such an immense army to him.
“And the location?” Ecgfrith leaned forward eagerly. “Did your vision give an indication of where we will meet?”
Hea closed her eyes, recalling once more the grim battlefield. This time she paid more attention to her surroundings. A few moments later, her eyes flickered open once more. “It is the north,” she affirmed. “The landscape is mountainous and wild, the hillsides covered with heather and gorse. It was a steep valley, or a gorge of some kind. The light is bright; it appears to be early summer. I’m sorry, but there are no landmarks I can give you. It is desolate terrain, nowhere I recognize.”
Ecgfrith nodded briskly. “Well done. You have given me much already. I will now send Cuthbert and his monks on their way.”
Panic surged wi
thin Hea. She could not let this end here. “Sire … you don’t have to do this.”
Ecgfrith rose to his feet, his expression dismissive. “Thank you, Hea—that’ll be all.”
“Milord, I—”
The king’s gaze narrowed. “Do you doubt yourself? Are you not sure what you saw?”
Hea climbed to her feet, her pulse accelerating. “I saw your victory,” she confirmed, “but—”
Ecgfrith turned away from her. “Then that’s all I need to know. You may go now.”
Chapter Fifteen
Warrior and Bride
Dundurn, The Kingdom of Fortriu
The handfasting took place at noon.
It was a blustery day, full of the promise of spring, although the wind that blew across the hills had a bite to it. Bridei stood upon the banks of the burn beneath his fortress, and wrapped a length of plaid around the joined hands of the man and woman before him.
Heolstor and his bride Ciara both beamed at him, while Bridei attempted to keep his expression neutral—noble—as was befitting a king.
Heolstor had dressed for the occasion in his finest leather vest and plaid breeches. Swirling patterns of blue decorated his bare arms, adding to the blue tattoos that traced one side of his face. The color contrasted deeply with his bright red hair.
The warrior had grown over the years into a giant of a man. He was taller and broader than most of the Picts he lived amongst, and looked as different as a cuckoo in a nest of sparrows. Still, the folk had accepted him long ago as one of their own. Ciara, a comely lass with a mane of dark brown hair and sea-green eyes looked lovely today in a long, sleeveless plaid tunic, and with heather in her hair.
Ciara shifted her attention from the king to her husband-to-be, gazing at him with open adoration.
Bridei stifled a smile. It was just like Heolstor to capture the heart of the most winsome lass in Dundurn. Years earlier, Bridei had even considered pursuing Ciara himself. Seeing Heolstor and the girl together so happy now, so well matched, gladdened his heart.
The ceremony was coming to its conclusion. Heolstor and Ciara stood barefoot on the edge of Allt Ghoinean burn, where clear water trickled over stones and birds darted overhead. A crowd had gathered around the warrior and his bride. All that was needed was for Bridei to complete their handfasting.
Bridei finished tying the plaid and stepped back. “Heolstor, warrior of Fortriu, I join you to Ciara daughter of Arnor mac Durn,” he began, his voice carrying over the crowd. “May The Mother light your way. May The Warrior protect you. May The Maiden grant you healthy children.” He paused here, letting his words echo high above them before continuing. “And may The Hag bless you with long, healthy lives—and keep The Reaper from your door.”
The wedding party feasted outdoors. A haunch of venison had been slowly roasting on a spit all morning, and the women had prepared breads and braised vegetables to serve with it. Long tables lined the edge of the burn, and the aroma of roast meat, accompanied by the pungent odor of peat, drifted across the hillside, carried by a brisk wind.
Bridei sat at the head of the longest table, his gaze surveying his surroundings. He loved this place—the great hill with the River Earn to one side and the Allt Ghoinean burn on the other.
His fort, Dundurn, reared above them, commanding a view for many furlongs in every direction. A very different structure to Bebbanburg, his fort was a great circular building: a broch. There was very little wood used here, instead even the huts surrounding the base of the fort were made of local stone, with turf or thatched roofs. Over the years, both Bridei and his father had added to the fort’s outer defenses, and now stone walls eight-feet high ringed the base of the hill. A path, cut into the side of the hill, wound lazily up to the broch, in-between a patchwork of cultivated terraces and cottars huts.
To Bridei’s left, one of his warriors—Fearghus—filled a drinking horn with mead and thrust it across the table at Heolstor. “Here, Fire Hair, down this!”
Heolstor grinned back at him before reaching across to claim the horn. “Aye, the first of many.”
Bridei shook his head. It was not just a boast; he had never met a man who could drink like Heolstor. Most Angle warriors he had met had hollow legs.
Platters of venison, braised onions, mashed carrot with honey and butter, and boiled turnip arrived at the table then, and the feasters fell upon it. Bridei helped himself to some bread studded with walnuts and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. Around him, his people laughed, joked and made merry, but he felt slightly apart from them.
His mood had been introspective of late.
He had no need for brooding. Everything was going well, yet an emptiness had taken up residence within him that he could not shake.
He had thought that today would cheer him up, for he had been looking forward to seeing Heolstor wed his sweetheart, but now that the ceremony was over, and the wedding feast was underway, a nagging sense of loss settled over him once more.
Curse her … can she not leave me in peace?
He had believed thoughts of Hea would cease shortly after leaving Bebbanburg, that by the time he reached his stronghold she would be little more than a pleasant memory. He had never been more wrong. Instead, the opposite had occurred. He could not stop thinking about her; she had become an obsession.
Months had now passed, and still memories of her assailed him with every quiet moment. At first, he had done his best to distract himself. He had lain with another woman on his return to Dundurn—Una—a serving wench who had long drawn his eye. But his sense of loss, of emptiness had only increased afterward.
Annoyance surged through him. Hea, that witch, had ruined all other women for him.
Cursing her once more, Bridei took a long draft from his cup, his gaze travelling over the table to where Una was filling the feasters’ cups. She carried a ewer of wine in one hand, a jug of mead in the other, and was laughing with one of the warriors.
Sensing someone’s gaze upon her, Una glanced up and boldly met Bridei’s eye. She then favored him with a slow, seductive smile.
Una was there for the taking, he knew that. Months had passed since Bridei had last lain with her, and his body cried out for a woman. Yet he knew the urge would only lead to disappointment … for them both.
Una was comely, but he found himself comparing her unfavorably to Hea. Una was too tall, too thin, her skin sallow in comparison, and her walnut-color hair drab. In the furs, she was lifeless compared to his red-haired Angle temptress.
Bridei knew Una deserved better, and in fact she had appeared hurt when he did not invite her to his bed again. It was better that way though—there was little point bedding a woman he did not want.
It was like drinking a barrel of ale, when only one cup of wine was what he thirsted for.
I’ve a hand, he thought sourly. I’ll have to use that for the time being.
Bridei looked away, to find Heolstor watching him. His friend had just downed his second horn of mead and was waiting for it to be refilled and passed back to him. Ciara was perched on his lap, and was nibbling a piece of venison.
“You look glum for such a day,” Heolstor observed with a wicked grin. “What’s wrong—did you want me for yourself?”
Bridei laughed, before raising his cup to them both. “I’d rather wed a goat. Ciara is welcome to you.”
Still grinning, Heolstor raised his own cup to his lord. “So why the long face?”
Bridei shrugged. “Just the cares of a man who rules, nothing worth speaking of.”
The mood changed at their end of the table. Heolstor’s face grew serious and his bride’s brow furrowed.
“When will you march south to face the Northumbrians?” Ciara asked.
“Soon,” Bridei assured her.
“How will it start?” Heolstor asked. “Shall we name a time and place and meet, shield wall to shield wall?”
Bridei shook his head. “The shield wall is your way—in the north we prefer to lay an ambush for o
ur enemies.”
Heolstor’s gaze grew intense. He took the drinking horn Fearghus passed him but did not yet drink from it. “Go on.”
Bridei favored his friend with a sly smile. “I lived amongst the Angles long enough to know the types of warfare they excel at, and which they do not. Long have I lain awake at night deciding on the best way to confront Ecgfrith.”
“And ….?”
Bridei’s smile widened. “I think it’s time we traveled south again and stirred up more trouble.”
Heolstor raised an eyebrow. “Poke the adder with a stick?”
“Aye—I intend to rile him, so he has no choice but to come after me.”
“What will you do then?” Ciara leaned forward, riveted by the men’s discussion. “Turn and fight?”
Bridei leaned back in his seat and lifted his cup, saluting them both once more. “Only when I’ve got him where I want him.”
Dusk settled over the hills of Fortriu, a rosy sunset that painted the sky in ribbons of mauve and pink. The feast had long since ended on the banks of the burn below, and folk had made their way back up to the fort—where the eating and drinking continued.
Soon after dark, the music and dancing began.
Two musicians, one playing a bone whistle, the other a harp, set themselves up on the wooden platform at one end of the circular space inside the great stone broch. Men and women pushed back the tables, so the area around the central hearth was clear, and began to dance.
Bridei, groggy and sated from a surfeit of rich food and mead, did not join them. Instead he took his seat upon the raised platform, at the other end from the musicians. He sat upon a carved oaken chair, decorated by a massive pair of stag antlers—his father’s throne—and stretched his long legs out before him, crossing them at the ankles.
It had been a good day, but he was content to watch the revelry, rather than take part in it.
Una had been observing him all afternoon. She glanced up at him now, from where she danced in a circle with the other unwed men and women who lived within the fort, her gaze coy.
