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

by Jayne Castel

  Osana did not look away from the directness of his gaze. She felt sorry for him, although she did not voice that sentiment. No man liked being the object of pity. “She may warm to you eventually,” Osana offered. “Once she accepts that this is her life now.”

  Aldfrith gave a humorless laugh. “Aye.”

  Drawing in a deep breath, Osana took a step back. This was a dangerous conversation and an improper one. If one of the servants heard them, there would be gossip circulating the Great Hall by nón-mete.

  She had never spoken to a man in this fashion before—not even Raedwulf. Her husband was too obtuse. He never looked at her as this man did now.

  “Milord,” she said finally, wetting her lips as nervousness assailed her. “I heard you were schooled to become a monk. If you had followed that path, you would have been spared this responsibility.”

  He leaned back on the bench and dragged a hand through his short blond hair, leaving it spiky and tousled. It gave him a boyish, vulnerable look.

  “I wasn’t ready when I first arrived upon Iona,” he replied, an edge to his voice. “I was frustrated about that at first, but then with the passing of the years, I decided I liked a scholar’s life better. I could live in quiet contemplation without the harsh demands of a monk’s life. Ironically, the day they came to collect me, the prior at Iona had told me I was ready to take my vows if I was willing.”

  Silence followed his words. Osana felt at a loss to know how to respond. Her own spirits were at a low ebb this morning—yet seeing the bleak look that flitted across the king’s handsome features, she realized she was not alone in her melancholy.

  “Listen to me,” the king scoffed, rising to his feet to face her. “I’m weary of hearing the self-pity in my own voice and apologize for burdening you with this.”

  Osana smiled, bobbing into a quick curtsy. Something about this man disarmed her. The rueful look on his face told her that he was not usually given to such a bleak mood. “It was no burden,” she said. Their gazes met and held for a long heartbeat. “But I fear I should return to the Great Hall. My husband will be awake by now.”

  “Of course,” he replied, a light smile curving his lips, although she could still see a shadow in those blue eyes. “Good day, Osana … it was a pleasure to share a few moments with you.”

  King Aldfrith watched Lady Osana of Hagustaldes walk away through the orchard, between the columns of apple trees.

  She was a small woman, yet she walked tall and proud. Her thick brown hair was braided and wrapped around her crown in a severe style that did not detract from her comeliness. Instead, it revealed the pale curve of her neck.

  Dolt.

  What had made him say all those things?

  She had looked at him with those soulful eyes, and he had felt compelled to open his heart. He had told her things he had not even realized he felt—and as she walked away a wave of loss crashed over him.

  He had come out into the orchard to find a little peace and play his harp. The music soothed him, softening the sharp edges of the previous night—blunting his memory of Cuthburh’s face as she rejected him.

  His conversation with the winsome ealdorman’s wife had brought it all back.

  Osana disappeared from view, and Aldfrith sat down heavily upon the bench.

  He had never met a woman like her. She was fair to look upon, but her appeal lay far beyond that. There was a quiet purpose to Osana, an ageless wisdom and kindness in those eyes.

  A strong desire to seek Osana out and speak with her again reared up within him.

  Enough.

  Aldfrith silenced his thoughts with an iron will he had spent a lifetime developing.

  Such thoughts will only lead you down a dark path.

  With that, Aldfrith cast lingering thoughts of Osana aside and began to play his harp once more. However, this time the music did not soothe him.

  Chapter Seven

  For the Best

  “YOUR HUSBAND IS a handsome fellow—you are a fortunate woman.”

  Osana glanced up from where she was winding wool onto her distaff. A basket lay at her feet, and she sat with a wooden spindle, teasing out the sticky fiber before winding it onto her distaff. She never went anywhere without her distaff. Ever since she was a girl, it had been like an additional limb.

  Eldflaed, the woman who had spoken, grinned across at her. The group of wives sat before one of the fire pits, sewing, spinning, and mending as they discussed the events of the last day. Eldflaed, the wife of one of the king’s thegns, was the loudest of the group. The onion-breathed woman of the day before now had a name.

  “I suppose he is comely,” Osana forced a smile. “Only that, after years of marriage a wife ceases to notice such details.”

  As she had hoped, this comment caused laughter to echo around the fireside.

  “I wish my man was so fine,” another of the wives said with a sigh. She was the ealdorman of Catraeth’s wife. “I swear with each passing year Wulfred grows more and more in the likeness of a boar.”

  Laughter erupted once more, and even Osana raised a smile. Wulfred of Catraeth was the hairiest man she had ever seen—with dark hair tufting from his nostrils and ears.

  The conversation resumed, and Osana shifted her attention back to her distaff. It grew late in the afternoon, and the air inside the Great Hall was heavy with the odor of simmering pottage. At the fire pit opposite, servants were starting to cook great wheels of bread upon a griddle. After the indulgence of the night before, this supper would be a simple one.

  The rumble of men’s voices filtered across the hall, and Osana glanced up to see the king enter the space.

  Aldfrith walked in long, confident strides, Bishop Wilfrid at his side. Wilfrid was talking to the king, his voice low, his expression fierce. In contrast, the king’s face was solemn, his eyes stern as he listened to him.

  A group of ealdormen—Raedwulf among them—followed Aldrfrith and the bishop, laughing and teasing each other as they entered the tower.

  Osana’s gaze tracked the king across the rushes. She knew she should not gawk so, yet she could not help herself.

  She had been in an odd mood ever since their conversation that morning. She kept thinking of the words that had passed between them—the man’s disarming candor. At the time she had been happy to flee, for she had been embarrassed by the intimacy. But as the day progressed, she found herself longing for a chance to talk to him again.

  Osana dropped her gaze to her spindle, a heaviness descending upon her. That conversation had been an unexpected, stolen, moment. The king was usually surrounded by retainers, and she and Raedwulf were to depart the following morning.

  Osana would not get the chance to speak with Aldfrith again.

  It’s just as well, she consoled herself, teasing a piece of lamb’s wool with her fingers. It was improper anyway.

  And yet part of her did not care. She had been brought up in a pious, conservative household. Manners had mattered a lot to her parents, as had proper behavior. Her father was an ambitious thegn and her mother an ealdorman’s daughter. Osana had always felt smothered by them. The eldest of three daughters, she had been relieved to marry and escape their constant judgement. Even though they were both dead, she felt she was defying them now, by wishing for another private conversation with the king.

  “Cuthburh!” Eldflaed’s strident voice interrupted Osana’s reverie once again. “Come sit with us, milady.”

  Osana lifted her gaze to see a slender figure glide across the rushes toward them.

  Like the other women, Osana automatically rose to her feet before dipping into a curtsy. However, as she did so, she noted the dramatic change in the girl.

  Cuthburh’s flowing flaxen hair, which had cascaded down her back the day before, was now hidden by a white headrail—only a glimpse of the end of a braid was visible under the hem of the veil. Unlike the form-fitting gown, the queen now wore a loose-fitting tunic made of cream linen, girded around her narrow waist.
Her face, framed by the headrail, was still lovely, although the queen’s appearance this afternoon was austere and cold. Her expression was shuttered as she took a seat next to the hearth and picked up a delicate piece of embroidery.

  “Good day, all.” Her voice was low and sweet, although Osana heard the guarded edge to it. Cuthburh did not trust them.

  “That is a lovely tunic, milady.” One of the ealdorman’s wives commented. “Such fine weave—and a lovely color.”

  Cuthburh’s rosebud mouth pursed. “It is too gaudy for my liking, but my brother refused to let me bring my usual clothes. Tomorrow I will see about having plainer garments made.”

  The queen’s comment caused a ripple of surprise to go through the knot of women. Cuthburh was queen—she was expected to wear fine clothes. Osana watched the queen bow her head and begin work on her embroidery, her slim, nimble fingers working with expert speed. She thought back to what Aldfrith had told her and realized he had not exaggerated Cuthburh’s wish for a different life to this one.

  Osana stifled a sigh.

  Don’t we all?

  “Osana!”

  She glanced up to see Raedwulf hailing her. He was seated upon the high seat, holding up a bronze cup. “Come, wife—get some wine and fill our cups!”

  Osana heard a few of the women giggle at Raedwulf’s command. No doubt they thought him manly and authoritative.

  Osana just found him boorish.

  Putting down her spindle, she left the women, murmured an apology, and crossed to the high seat. A servant girl had filled a ewer of sloe wine, which she passed to Osana. Silently, ever the obedient wife, Osana circuited the table, pouring wine into each man’s cup.

  Now that he had hailed her to his side, Raedwulf ignored Osana. He was deep in conversation with the ealdorman of Gefrin, discussing perimeter defenses, and did not even look his wife’s way as she passed.

  Osana was grateful.

  Reaching the head of the table, Osana filled the king’s cup. She was drawing back—about to move on to the bishop—when Aldfrith looked up.

  Eyes the color of the summer sky just before sunset met hers. And just for a moment Osana paused, ensnared.

  “Thank you,” the king said quietly.

  Heart hammering, Osana dipped her head and moved on to Bishop Wilfrid. However, as she did so, she realized that it was not only the king who had noticed her. The bishop had too.

  Wilfrid watched her under hooded lids, his gaunt face stern. Osana met his gaze, and her heart slammed painfully against her ribs. One look at the bishop’s narrowed stare, his thinned lips, and she felt stripped bare. They had done nothing wrong, but she felt as if the bishop had caught the pair of them cavorting naked.

  A flush spread up from her chest at the thought, and Osana hastily moved on to continue pouring the wine.

  They left Bebbanburg with the dawn. Raedwulf rose before Osana, leaving her to pack their belongings while he went out to ready the horses. They had brought a small party with them—just four of Raedwulf’s most trusted men but no servants. Osana would serve and tend to their needs during the journey home.

  Osana readied the leather trunk in their alcove and called two of her husband’s men to carry it out to the wagon. Then she made her way out into the hall.

  Women were shouting at servants, children wailed, and men hauled leather bags and trunks across the space, kicking dogs out of the way as they went. Raedwulf and Osana were not the only ones to be leaving.

  There was no sign of the king—or queen—this morning.

  Disappointment settled over Osana that she would not see Aldfrith again, but she quickly shrugged it off.

  Goose. Pull yourself together.

  Osana crossed the hall and left the tower through an arched entrance way. A grey, misty morning and the smell of wood smoke greeted her. She huffed out a breath. Summer, it seemed, was over. The scent of autumn lay heavy in the air.

  Pulling her thick fur mantle close, she descended the steps to the yard below, spotting her husband leading their horses from the stables. A wagon filled with their baggage sat waiting surrounded by Raedwulf’s men—who were mounted and ready to go.

  “Always the last to arrive, wife,” Raedwulf grumbled, handing over the horse’s reins.

  Osana favored him with an arch look. “And rightly so, husband. Someone has to ensure you didn’t leave something behind.”

  He grinned at that. Raedwulf had always enjoyed her spirit—unlike some men who might have beaten it out of her. There had only been a couple of occasions when he had taken a hand to her: when she had dared to contradict him in front of his brother and retainers. After that, Osana had taken care to save their arguments for their alcove.

  “Gossiping with other wives more like,” he said before turning to his horse and swinging up onto the saddle. “I know how women like to prattle.”

  Osana rolled her eyes, knowing he had his back to her.

  You know nothing about women.

  Gathering her skirts, Osana mounted her palfrey. She bowed her head as a chill wind gusted through her layers of clothing. Osana shivered, pulling up her fur lined hood. The journey from Hagustaldes had been a pleasant one—but with the turn of the weather, the return would not be such an enjoyable ride.

  Raedwulf urged his horse forward, and Osana followed, the wagon rumbling behind them as the driver flicked the reins and the stocky pony drawing it moved off. The wagon had been laden with wedding gifts: a fur-lined cloak for the queen, two beautifully crafted seaxes with amber-studded hilts, and a bounty of cheeses and cured meats for the king’s stores. It was far lighter for the return journey.

  Against her will, Osana found her gaze drawn back toward the Great Tower of Bebbanburg. She glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to see a tall blond man standing on the steps watching them go. However, no-one was there to see them off—just the ealdorman of Catraeth, who was bickering with his wife as he lumbered down the steps to the yard.

  It’s best I didn’t see Aldfrith this morning. Osana dragged her gaze away and urged her mare under the high gate. The expanse of the King’s Way loomed before her. Best I return to reality.

  That conversation, those stolen moments in the orchard, had been a dream; that scene seemed as if it had belonged to someone else’s life. For a few brief moments she had forgotten that she was Osana: barren and lonely. For a short spell she had merely been a woman in the company of a man who had made her feel alive.

  But that man was king and as untouchable as a star. And she was wedded, bonded for life to another. It would do her no good to think on Aldfrith of Northumbria—for it would only make her melancholy grow. She glanced right at where Raedwulf rode, his thick blond hair tumbling over his shoulders, his profile ruggedly handsome as always. Raedwulf of Hagustaldes was her life. It would be better for her to forget she had ever spoken to the king.

  Chapter Eight

  A Promise for Life

  Bebbanburg, Kingdom of Northumbria

  Two years later

  “YOU ARE LEAVING then?”

  “Aye … it’s time, Aldfrith.”

  He stiffened at the use of his name. In the two years of their union, Cuthburh had rarely used it—usually addressing him as ‘sire’ or ‘milord’. However, there was no warmth in her voice now, and his name sounded clipped and cold on her lips.

  They faced each other—man and wife—inside the alcove they shared. Aldfrith had returned from hawking to find Cuthburh standing amongst trunks and bags, servants scurrying around her. At the arrival of the king, they had dipped their heads and backed out of the alcove, leaving the king and queen alone.

  “We made a promise at our handfasting,” Aldfrith said, his voice flat and toneless to his hearing. “It was a promise for life.”

  Cuthburh drew herself up at that, her mouth thinning. “The only promise worth anything to me is the one I made to God years ago. I will be wedded to no one but him.”

  That was it then—the way of things.

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nbsp; Aldfrith observed his wife, taking in her haughty face and cold eyes. She was barely more than twenty winters now, yet to him she appeared much older. As always, she wore heavy woolen robes that shrouded her figure, and an enveloping headrail. Her face—which he had once found so pretty—now just seemed austere.

  The attraction he had once felt for her had eventually died.

  He had tried to consummate their marriage again on several occasions, for only a weak fool would give up so easily, yet she had rejected him each time. On his final attempt they had been alone together in their alcove, undressing to retire for the night. He had told her she was beautiful and reached out to stroke her hair. Cuthburh had then shrieked as if scalded before beginning to sob.

  Aldfrith never bothered again after that.

  “So you are set on going to Berecingas?” he asked.

  Cuthburh responded with a brisk nod. “I have sent word to Abbess Hildelith—she has space for me at her nunnery.”

  Aldfrith’s gaze dropped to the luggage at her feet. “Have you organized an escort?”

  “Aye … the bishop has organized a party of four horsemen to accompany me south.”

  Aldfrith’s jaw clenched at the mention of the bishop.

  It seems I’m the last to know.

  “Berecingas is a long ride,” he said, forcing down his irritation. “Four men aren’t enough. I will have another four warriors accompany you.”

  Her blue eyes widened at that, and for a moment her ice-queen façade cracked. She almost looked … guilty.

  Cuthburh dropped her gaze, her fingers twisting around the end of the rope she used to gird her waist. “You’re a good man, Aldfrith … better than I deserve.”