Lord 0f The North Wind (The Kingdom 0f Northumbria Book 3)

by Jayne Castel

  “He doesn’t look like a scholar.” The onion-breathed woman was back, echoing Osana’s own thoughts. “He’s so tall and strong. I wonder if the rumors are true though … that he’s never had a woman.”

  That got Osana’s attention. She swiveled around, eyes wide. “Really?”

  Delighted the ealdorman of Hagustaldes’s wife was finally giving her some attention, the woman—presumably the wife of one of the king’s thegns—grinned. “Aye—I’d like to be the one to show him the way of the furs … a fine-looking man like that. Wouldn’t you?”

  Feeling her face warm, Osana turned back to see a slender figure sheathed in rose and gold glide across the floor toward the king.

  Cuthburh of Wessex had arrived.

  Raedwulf, damn him, had been right—she really was a beauty. Pale skinned and delicate-featured, Princess Cuthburh looked radiant with her white-blonde hair spilling over her slender shoulders.

  Osana’s thoughts shifted back then to the question posed by the woman beside her. Truthfully, her answer was no—she had no wish to show Aldfrith how to bed a woman. As attractive as the new king was, she could not think of anything she would like less. She had a husband with the sexual drive of a ram, and did not welcome the thought of any man touching her these days. Sometimes she wished Raedwulf would never lay a hand on her again.

  Her husband met her eye now and grinned. “I told you so,” he mouthed before winking at her.

  Osana cast him an exasperated look and shifted her attention back to where the princess had just stopped at Aldfrith’s side. Their gazes met, and the king smiled.

  Osana’s chest constricted then, as she remembered her own handfasting.

  How nervous she had been and how handsome Raedwulf. The feasting and revelry had lasted late into the night, before Raedwulf had carried her off to the furs and claimed her as his. It had hurt, as her mother had warned her it would, but she had found that first night wondrous, exciting. How she wished she still felt that way.

  Osana’s vision blurred as she continued to watch the couple.

  They stood surrounded by the grandeur of the Great Hall of Bebbanburg: walls of red stone, a high ceiling, and flickering oil-filled cressets. Shields, axes, and swords hung from the pitted walls, all trophies from past victories and campaigns.

  A tall, spare man with hawkish features and a receding hairline, dressed in fine purple robes, an iron cross around his neck, stood before Aldfrith and Cuthburh.

  This must be Bishop Wilfrid, newly returned from exile, Osana reflected. She had heard tales about this man. The stories went that King Ecgfrith had banished him from Northumbria after the bishop had helped Ecgfrith’s first wife run away to a convent. However, with Ecgfrith’s death a few months earlier, Wilfrid had returned to the north, where he had taken up residence at Inhrypum, a town to the south of Bebbanburg.

  The bishop’s voice droned on while he began the ceremony, outlining the responsibilities of man and wife. He wrapped a ribbon around the couple’s joined hands as he spoke.

  Osana blinked rapidly. She was far too sentimental at these gatherings; she always got weepy at handfastings. Ridiculous really, when her own marriage had not turned out as she had hoped.

  Yet her reaction surprised her, for it showed that there was still a tiny part of her remaining that believed in love. She believed there could be a happy union between man and wife, only that belief was not for her, but for others.

  Chapter Three

  The Feast

  “a quail egg?”

  Aldfrith held up a platter and smiled at his bride. The bishop had not lied, she was indeed comely. Although now he was seated next to her, the girl seemed incredibly young.

  Cuthburh daintily took the egg. “Thank you, milord.”

  “Please call me Aldfrith,” he replied. “Or you can call me Flann, if you like … for that was the name my mother gave me.”

  A startled expression flitted across those blue eyes, and her smile tightened. “As you wish, milord.”

  Aldfrith’s smile slipped. She was hiding it well, but he sensed the unhappiness that bubbled just beneath the surface. Just that one brief exchange told him that she did not welcome this match.

  Picking up his golden cup studded with garnets, Aldfrith took a sip of sloe wine. Around him voices thundered off the stone walls. The king and his chief retainers feasted at a long table upon the high seat, while the other folk within the hall sat at tables that formed squares around the tower’s four massive hearths.

  He and Cuthburh sat at the head of the king’s table, upon carven chairs. Bishop Wilfrid sat to the queen’s right, his stern gaze surveying all. Oswald, the priest who had accompanied Aldfrith from Iona, had taken his place next to the bishop. The young man did not look entirely happy with the seating arrangement; the priest seemed to visibly wilt every time the bishop swung his gaze in his direction.

  Aldfrith’s mouth curved in a half-smile. He had gotten to know Oswald quite well on the journey home, and had learned a little about his half-brother Ecgfrith during that journey too. It seemed that Ecgfrith had sired a bastard daughter, a woman who had once been his seer but now lived with the Picts.

  Oswald had been nervous of revealing too much about Ecgfrith’s reign at first. Yet the journey from Iona to Bebbanburg had taken a few days, and by the time they spied the fort on the horizon, Aldfrith felt he knew enough about the politics of this place to be able to hold his own here.

  Sometimes though—like this evening—he wondered just how well he was actually managing. Kingship was already revealing itself to be a heavy responsibility.

  Aldfrith’s gaze shifted then to Cerdic, sitting to his left. This evening, as usual, his captain wore an inscrutable expression. Feeling the king’s gaze upon him, Cerdic glanced up from his trencher of venison stew. “Sire?”

  Aldfrith met his eye. “Were you at the Battle of Nechtansmere, Cerdic?”

  Cerdic shook his head. “Lord Ecgfrith bid me to remain here, to watch over Bebbanburg’s garrison.”

  Silence fell while Aldfrith digested this information. When he spoke once more, his voice was low, thoughtful. “Do you think Ecgfrith was a good king?”

  Cerdic’s brows knotted together. “He was my king, sire. I trusted him.”

  Aldfrith took another sip of wine. “Aye … but did you approve of the way he ruled?”

  Cerdic watched him, his expression wary.

  Aldfrith inclined his head. “I’m not trying to trick you,” he assured the warrior. “I’m just trying to get a sense of the kind of leader my brother was.”

  Cerdic snorted, although his gaze was still watchful. “Ecgfrith ruled wisely for the most part, sire. He was a warrior and a natural leader, although he had a prickly temper … quick to anger. On some things he could be stubborn, blinded.”

  Aldfrith nodded, taking this in. He had never met his half-brother, and did not even remember his own father, for Oswiu had left when Aldfrith was an infant. Yet he was curious about the man he had replaced. Although Oswald had told him a bit about his predecessor, he still felt as if there were many gaps in his knowledge.

  “I wonder what folk will make of me,” he murmured, speaking almost more to himself than to anyone else. “I’m a scholar … not a warrior king.”

  Cerdic smiled at that—an unexpected expression that softened his face and made him appear younger. Aldfrith realized then that the warrior was around his own age; his severity had made him appear older.

  “Folk of this kingdom have seen much blood over the years, milord,” he said after a pause. “They’ll thank you for a bit of peace.”

  Aldfrith watched him before nodding. Their conversation reminded him of why he liked Cerdic. The man was gruff, but there was an honesty to his words.

  The king’s gaze shifted from his captain and swept over the table. He took in the faces of the others seated upon the heah-setl. His ealdormen sat nearby. These men governed Northumbria’s biggest settlements: Hagustaldes, Gefrin, Catraeth, Eo
forwic, and Inhrypum.

  The ealdorman of Hagustaldes sat nearest Aldfrith. He was a big, blond man named Raedwulf, a warrior with a wide smile and a booming laugh. Raedwulf’s wife sat next to him. Unlike her garrulous husband, Osana of Hagustaldes appeared a softly-spoken woman.

  Aldfrith’s gaze settled upon her for a moment.

  The ealdorman’s wife was quite lovely. Not in the girlish way his bride was, but with an earthier beauty. She had walnut-colored hair that she wore coiled into braids around her head—as only unwed women wore their hair unbound. He silently admired her creamy skin, expressive hazel eyes, neat features, and delicately drawn mouth. She wore a becoming green sleeveless tunic, the bronze ring upon her right arm her only adornment.

  Realizing he was staring, Aldfrith tore his gaze from the ealdorman’s wife and looked down at his cup. What’s wrong with me? Staring at another man’s wife when I have just taken one of my own.

  This wedding had unsettled him. He was used to solitude and peace, to spending his days in male company. Having women around him again after so long was distracting, and Aldfrith did not like the feeling. He missed the serenity and isolation of Iona—he had chosen that life for a reason.

  Raedwulf of Hugustaldes had not appeared to notice the direction of Aldfrith’s gaze. He was too busy exchanging boasts with Edwin, the ealdorman of Gefrin, farther down the table. Edwin was Aldfrith’s cousin; a blond, florid-faced warrior who was around five years the king’s elder. Aldfrith had met him for the first time two days earlier and was not sure he liked him. His cousin was brash with a vaguely patronizing manner.

  “I killed ten men in my first battle—and I was just a lad of fourteen winters,” Raedwulf boomed. “Could you better that?”

  “Ten?” Edwin scoffed. “That’s the number you’ve slain in your entire life. I’m sure I can better that!”

  Harsh male laughter echoed over the table, although Aldfrith did not join in. He felt at sea here, surrounded by warriors—men who could wield a sword before their voice broke, before the first whiskers grew on their chin. They were another breed, a class of man he did not understand or like much if he was honest.

  His father had been one such man. He remembered his mother telling him so, her blue eyes filled with pain and grief. Your father is a ruler of men, a warrior. He was not meant to remain in exile with us.

  “Cousin!” Edwin’s booming voice roused Aldfrith from his thoughts. “So you’ve finally joined the rest of us. A wedded man at last. Better late than never, I say!”

  The ealdorman of Gefrin’s comment brought a rumble of laughter from the other ealdormen, although Raedwulf of Hagustaldes merely smirked. Next to Aldfrith, Cerdic frowned.

  “Aye,” Aldfrith replied, raising his cup to Edwin, who had just downed a horn of mead. The man’s cheeks were ruddy with drink, and yet there was a belligerent look in his eyes that made Aldfrith wary. “It was time.”

  Secretly he would rather have remained unwed, yet he did not share his thoughts with these men. Some opinions would only be mocked.

  “Make sure you get her with child soon, sire,” Wulfred, the ealdorman of Catraeth, spoke up. He was a short, barrel-chested man with thick dark hair and a wild beard to match. “Your predecessor failed to produce an heir. You don’t want Oswiu’s line to die out.”

  “It won’t,” Edwin cut in, gaze narrowed. “I’m Oswiu’s nephew, and I have three sons.”

  Wulfred favored his fellow ealdorman with a sly look. “Aye, but Aldfrith is Oswiu’s son.”

  His bastard son.

  The words hung unspoken in the air. Aldfrith knew none would have the nerve to speak those words, but they would all be thinking it.

  “Now you are wed, you will be able to focus on other matters, sire,” Raedwulf of Hagustaldes interjected, his jovial tone shattering the tension that had settled upon the table. “Ecgfrith left us quite a mess.”

  “Aye, he did,” Edwin growled, holding out his empty horn of mead to a woman—one of the thegn’s wives—to fill. “Thanks to him, Northumbria has no fyrd … most of our best fighting men died in the north.”

  Aldfrith heaved in a deep breath and cast a questioning look in Cerdic’s direction. Had his captain not spoken with the ealdormen as he had asked? Cerdic did not look his way. Instead, he was glaring at Edwin, his jaw clenched.

  The king turned his attention back to his cousin and favored him with a cool smile. He was aware of the state of the kingdom. Oswald, Cerdic, and the bishop had all given him their opinions on what needed to be done. He planned to sit down with his ealdormen soon and discuss their territory and army—just not today. “We will talk of this tomorrow,” he replied, meeting his cousin’s gaze and holding it. “When our bellies aren’t full of food and our minds blurred with drink.”

  The comment was a direct jibe at Edwin, who had already consumed enough mead to have him swaying in his seat.

  Many around the table chuckled or smirked at this, knowing whom the king was referring to. Yet the ealdorman of Gefrin merely scowled. Aldfrith tensed, knowing that his cousin was not finished trying to assert his dominance.

  I’ve got a fight on my hands with him.

  Aldfrith held up his cup to be filled, as a woman appeared with a jug at his elbow. He did not usually drink much, but a little more wine would not hurt. Tonight he was a king surrounded by strangers and men like Edwin who probably wished he had stayed on Iona.

  Not only that, but tonight he was a husband and would be expected to bed his bride—a young woman who could hardly bring herself to meet his eye.

  Aldfrith turned his attention back to Cuthburh. Although timid, she was lovely. Things would be easier between them later if he managed to thaw the wall of ice between them. “Do you have any brothers or sisters, milady?” he asked.

  She glanced up, meeting his gaze for an instant before hurriedly looking away.

  “Two younger sisters, sire,” she replied. Her voice was breathy and sweet, yet he found himself irritated by it. The tone sounded affected, as if she had been tutored in the art of meekness.

  “And are they still in Wessex?”

  “No … they are both brides of Christ, sire.” Her gaze darted up again, and this time he saw heat light in those pale blue eyes.

  Now he understood.

  “You wished for that life too,” he murmured, holding her gaze. “Didn’t you?”

  Her jaw tensed, and she stared at him for a long moment. Then she nodded.

  “But your brother had other plans for you,” he added. “I understand how you feel, Cuthburh. I too had little choice in the path laid before me.”

  She looked away then, staring down at the platter of food they shared, which she had barely touched. Her slender shoulders had gone taut, as if one word more would have her bolting from the table. As such, Aldfrith held his tongue.

  Instead, he leaned back in his chair and drank from his cup. Voices boomed around him, almost drowning out the strains of the lute from the musicians playing on a platform next to the high seat. Drunken laughter lifted high into the rafters. The faces of his ealdormen were slack with drink, and the revelers feasted like ravenous dogs.

  Suddenly, Aldfrith had no appetite for the rich food or for the merriment. He felt an odd hollowness inside, a feeling he had not experienced in a long while—not since the bleak days of his childhood. He was not sure where he belonged, or even if Iona was really the home he had longed for, but it certainly was not here.

  He felt someone’s gaze upon him then. It was a pleasant sensation, like a soft feather trailing over his skin. It was a welcome distraction from his thoughts, and Aldfrith looked up.

  With a jolt, he saw that Osana of Hagustaldes was silently watching him.

  Chapter Four

  A Wife’s Duty

  ALDFRITH FOLLOWED CUTHBURH into the alcove and drew the heavy tapestry closed behind him. Over the past two moons this warm, comfortable space had become his refuge, the place he had found peace in the turmoil of his new life.<
br />
  Now he would have to share it with another.

  Hooting and cat calls followed them. His ealdormen, now well into their cups, had wanted to carry the newlyweds into the alcove and dump them onto the waiting bed of furs. Aldfrith had forbidden them.

  His bride was frightened enough—such roughness would traumatize her.

  The alcove had been prepared for them. Sprays of meadow flowers lay scattered across the plush furs covering the floor. Tallow candles burned either side of the pile of furs dominating one end of the space, illuminating the alcove in pale gold.

  Aldfrith took two strides inside and stopped, watching his bride make her way over to the furs. She had a regal walk, with a straight spine and shoulders back; only the tension that rippled off her in waves gave her fear away.

  She stopped, her back to him, and looked at the far wall, as if hoping a door would appear there through which she could flee.

  “I can’t remove my gown without your help, milord.” Her voice trembled.

  Aldfrith unclipped the brooch fastening the wolfskin cloak to his shoulders and shrugged the mantle off. Then he crossed to where Cuthburh stood silently waiting and began to unlace the back of her gown. It was a beautiful, intricately sewn garment that would have taken a number of women many moons to make.

  All for one special day.

  He finished unlacing her gown and stepped back. He supposed he should slip it off her shoulders, take advantage of the moment to force intimacy, yet he did not. She was lovely though, and the smoothness of her skin made his breath catch.

  After a moment she removed the gown, stepping out of it. Underneath, Cuthburh wore a thin gauzy tunic that revealed the slender length of her body, the curve of her buttocks, and the coltish length of her legs.

  Aldfrith felt the stirrings of desire. It had been years since he had been this physically close to a girl, and it was hard not to be aroused by the sight of a beautiful half-naked woman standing before him.