by Jayne Castel
Chapter Twenty-five
Impossible
Two months later …
OSANA SAT MILKING the goat. Snowdrop was its name, a creature that Hagona doted on like a child. Osana could understand why: Snowdrop had a sweet, inquisitive temperament and was undemanding company. The rhythmic squirts of milk in the pail, and the first rays of morning sun on her back, relaxed Osana as she worked.
With the pail full of frothy milk, Osana carefully lifted it from under the goat, patted Snowdrop on the flank, and straightened up.
Her vision dimmed as she did so, a wave of dizziness sweeping over her. Osana swayed and reached out with her free hand, catching the edge of the pen where Snowdrop spent her nights.
She had been feeling out of sorts the past couple of days, with the odd dizzy-spell and mild bouts of nausea.
She hoped she was not sickening from something.
Osana made her way up the path, in-between growths of rosemary, thyme, and sage, to the front door of Hagona’s home. Knocking gently, she then went inside. She did not sleep under the same roof as her aunt; Hagona had given her the old fowl house, an annex that joined the back of this building. Initially Osana had despaired, but once she had cleaned the space thoroughly and made it into a comfortable, albeit cramped home, she was glad she lived apart from her aunt.
Hagona was not easy company.
“There you are.” A sharp voice greeted her as she entered the dwelling. Hagona stood next to the hearth that dominated her home, cooking a wheel of bread over a griddle. “I swear you get slower at milking that goat with each passing day.”
“It’s spring … Snowdrop is giving a lot of milk at the moment,” Osana replied. “Look. She filled the bucket to the brim.”
Hagona gave a snort. “Well, pour us a cup each then. The bread’s ready.”
Osana carried the pail over to the scrubbed wooden table that stretched down the western wall of the dwelling. There, she took a ladle and two wooden cups before filling them. Meanwhile, Hagona had torn the freshly baked bread in two and was sitting by the hearth, a wooden platter on her knee. She was slathering the bread with butter and honey.
Osana’s mouth quirked. Her aunt was a tiny woman without an ounce of fat on her, yet she ate like a famished hound. Granted though, Hagona worked hard too. Osana rarely saw her rest during the day.
Joining her aunt, Osana passed her a cup of milk and took a seat opposite. But when she lifted the cup to her lips, she stopped. The warm rich scent of milk made her gorge rise.
Swallowing, Osana lowered the cup.
Hagona glanced up, her mouth full of bread. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Her aunt’s brow furrowed. “The milk doesn’t taste bad, does it? The goat hasn’t been eating buttercup again I hope.”
Osana shook her head. “It’s fine, aunt.”
“So why don’t you drink it?”
Osana lifted the cup to her lips once more and forced herself to sip. This time, nausea hit her in a wave. She gagged, slapping a hand over her mouth to prevent herself from being sick.
Across the hearth, Hagona went still.
“God’s bones, girl … anyone would think you were with child.”
A chill settled over Osana.
That’s impossible. She was barren—the healer in Hagustaldes had told her so. In all her years with Raedwulf, her womb had never quickened, while he had sired a number of bastards in the surrounding village.
She had now missed two moon flows, although since her cycle had never been regular, she had not thought much of it.
She did now.
“It can’t be Raedwulf’s,” her aunt said, her thin face turning thoughtful before her eyes widened. “That’s why you came to live here, isn’t it? You were running from someone.”
“No,” Osana replied quickly, although the sharpness of her tone and the speed of her answer merely confirmed her aunt’s theory.
Hagona’s mouth compressed. “Who is he?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“He’s wedded then.”
Osana shook her head. “Please leave it be, aunt.”
Hagona drew herself up. “You’re a guest under my roof. You’ll have no secrets from me.”
Osana set aside her cup and untouched platter of bread, and rose to her feet. Nausea warred with confusion and panic now. She could not bear her aunt’s nagging. “Some things are best not spoken of,” she replied firmly as she tried to gather her scattered wits. “Please … I’ll tell you when I’m ready.”
Her aunt’s mouth thinned. Hagona was not so easily put off. “We’ll see about that,” she muttered.
Jedworth’s healer confirmed what Osana already knew in her bones to be true. The elderly woman had run her hands over Osana’s abdomen and asked her a few questions before giving a brisk nod.
“Aye, lass … you’re with child.”
Shortly after, Osana stumbled from the woman’s hovel, which was located near Jedworth’s south gate, her mind whirling, her stomach churning. Panicked sweat beaded her skin. She could never tell Hagona who the father of the child was; she could speak of it to no one here.
Aldfrith can never know.
She walked up the dirt street, her thoughts turning inward. Overhead, the sky had clouded over, dimming the day—yet Osana barely noticed it. All she could think about was the fact that soon her belly would start to swell. In a few months’ time, folk would start to notice.
They would stare and whisper behind her back. What would she do then?
Osana swallowed as her throat constricted. Would Hagona allow her to remain with her? As sharp-tongued as her aunt could be, she was not a pitiless woman. Surely she would not cast a pregnant woman out?
Despite that she had told herself she would not weep, Osana’s vision misted. She blinked rapidly, fighting the tears that threatened to well. She could cry later when she was alone in her annex, not here in the middle of town where folk would see. Her arrival had set tongues wagging as it was.
Wait till they realize I’m bearing a child … they’ll have fodder for gossip for years.
Despite that the day was not cold, Osana drew the woolen shawl she wore around her shoulders tighter. She felt shivery and light-headed. Inhaling deeply, she fought against the panic that now cramped her bowels. She needed to calm down, to think clearly.
The news had felt like a condemnation, yet she knew that once the shock passed she would learn to live with it. She needed to plan for the future and decide how she would keep her aunt’s prying at bay.
What would she tell the child about its father?
Stop it. She was getting ahead of herself. Many women lost their babes during the early period of pregnancy. There was a chance she might lose hers. She would deal with what to tell the child later, after this first hurdle had been scaled.
Osana made her way across town, passing through the market square where the ealdorman’s hall loomed over the busy cluster of stalls and shoppers. The sight of the hall made her remember her old life in Hagustaldes, her daily unhappiness as Raedwulf’s wife.
The memory calmed her.
As upset as she was this morning, she was no longer that woman. Penniless and pregnant she might be, but she no longer lived under Raedwulf’s thumb. She no longer felt like a failure as a wife—as a woman. Strangely, despite her hurt and lingering anger toward Aldfrith, he had somehow freed her. And Hagona, although bossy, did not treat her like property. She was happier in her fowl coop than she had ever been in the ealdorman’s hall.
She walked on, and presently found herself passing Jedworth’s church. A sturdy building made of timber, with a steep pitched roof crested by an iron cross, the sight of the church made Osana pause.
The church in Hagustaldes had been her refuge. Before Raedwulf’s death she had taken to visiting regularly, for it was one of the few places where she could sit alone with her thoughts. She had not visited the church in Bebbanburg so often. The priest, Oswald, was
not an offensive man, and left her alone to pray, yet Bishop Wilfrid was such a frequent visitor at the fort that Osana often worried he would corner her there.
Jedworth was different. The bishop did not live here, and Osana was reluctant to return home to Hagona’s interrogation.
Instead, she climbed the stone steps before the church and went inside. She entered a quiet space where the scuff of her shoes on the stone pavers seemed suddenly loud, as did her breathing.
Grey light filtered in through the high windows, illuminating floating dust motes, and Osana breathed in the fatty odor of tallow and the scent of incense. The local priest—a portly fellow named Torht—did not appear to be in residence.
The realization relieved Osana. She wanted to be alone for a while so she could sort through her thoughts.
Low wooden benches filled the church, and Osana walked up the aisle between them. Before her loomed a high altar, where a crucifix gleamed in the morning light. It was an arresting sight, and Osana kept her gaze upon it as she sat down upon one of the benches near the front.
Seated there, she clasped her hands together and raised them before her.
She did not pray. Instead, she closed her eyes a moment, letting the peace of this place settle upon her.
Osana was hesitant to pray. It had been a while, and where did she start? She had never used church as a place to divest herself of sin and salve her conscience, and she did not want to start now. Instead, it was a place where she could just ‘be’, without being questioned or judged.
And so she remained there, still and silent, looking for answers she knew she would never find.
Chapter Twenty-six
Only One Cure
ALDFRITH STARED DOWN at the sheet of vellum before him. He had spent all morning on these lines, had concentrated so much over them that the muscles on the back of his neck felt stiff and sore, and a head-ache formed in his temples.
A few months earlier, he would have looked upon the words with pride, yet now they irritated him. Frowning, he read the first paragraph aloud:
“Abandonment results in slander.
Humility wins good favor.
Stinginess is disparaged.
Humility engenders gentleness.
Familiarity fuels strife.
Arrogance produces disfavor.”
Aldfrith finished reading. Hollow. Those words he had labored over now seemed meaningless. Osana’s words returned to him then. Months ago she had sat next to him in this annex and questioned him.
You must be very sure of your beliefs, of the nature of folk, to write so confidently.
He had once been very sure, but these days he was less so. He had always liked the idea of having ideals to live by; it had made the messiness of life easier to deal with. It created order out of chaos.
The Philosopher King. He had thought himself so wise, yet now he felt a fool.
Without those ideals who was he? A man with an empty heart and a barren soul, who sat upon a lonely throne.
Aldfrith cursed and pushed himself back from his desk. “Damn you, Osana,” he muttered. “This is your doing.”
Next to him Argus stirred and rose to his feet, shaking himself off after a nap. The wolfhound moved forward, pressing against his master’s leg for some affection. With a sigh, Aldfrith reached down and stroked the dog’s ears. He was fortunate in Argus. The hound’s love was simple, uncomplicated.
“Come on,” he muttered. “Let’s take a walk in the orchard. I need some fresh air.”
They left the annex, Aldfrith crossing the yard in front of the Great Tower in long strides with his hound trotting at his heels. Lora, the companion Osana had brought with her from Hagustaldes, was kneeling by the well, scrubbing linen tunics on a wooden washing board, a cake of lye in hand.
“Good morning, sire,” she called out with a wide smile as he passed.
Aldfrith acknowledged her with a nod. The woman had looked miserable for the first days after Osana’s departure, yet two moons on she appeared to have recovered her spirits. Whenever Aldfrith saw her of late, she was smiling.
Aldfrith continued on to the orchard. The blossom had come and gone on the apple and pear trees here, and the branches were bright with tender new leaves. They were nearing the end of spring now, and soon the first tiny fruits would start to appear.
The orchard was Aldfrith’s favorite spot in Bebbanburg. Hidden away inside the inner palisade of the fort, it was a private space that only those who lived in the Great Tower had access to. Even so, the king often had the space to himself.
He wandered down the avenue between two rows of apple trees and breathed deeply, enjoying the heat of the sun on his back. Despite that it was peaceful in here, the sounds of daily life in the fort intruded: the clang of iron from the forges on the King’s Way, the shouts of vendors in the market square, and a burst of laughter from one of his warriors in the training yard behind the tower.
The sounds of life.
Today Aldfrith felt apart from it all. He did not like feeling so alone. In the past he had sought solitude, reveled in it. Upon Iona there had been days in the winter, especially, when he would not see anyone; yet it had not mattered then. He had been lost with his reading and writing, his musing.
His thoughts no longer brought him solace. Instead, they had begun to torture him.
Reaching the far side of the orchard, he stopped before a low wooden bench. Aldfrith’s gaze settled upon it. It had been a mistake coming here, for this spot reminded him of Osana and the first time they had spoken.
He remembered how guilty she had looked, for she had been eating an apple when she stumbled upon him playing his harp. The conversation that had followed between them had been the most revealing of his life.
Osana had a way of challenging him that excited him, body and soul. Life with her would never be dull.
Enough … stop thinking of her.
Aldfrith turned away from the bench and walked back the way he had come. Argus trotted off and lifted his leg against a tree, oblivious to his master’s despair.
And despair it was.
It was an illness he could not shake. He had thought her absence would heal him, cleanse him, that life would go back to the way it was. Instead, with each passing day he felt the lack of Osana in his life ever more keenly. He ached to see her, to hear the softness of her voice, to touch her soft skin.
Aldfrith swallowed a groan of frustration. Why do I torture myself so?
It seemed the more he tried to push her from his thoughts, the more Osana intruded.
I just need more time, he told himself as he lengthened his stride. I need to weather this.
A scene greeted him when he emerged from the trees.
Cerdic and Lora stood together near the well. She was giggling and flicking sudsy water at him, while he grinned and tried to catch her.
Aldfrith’s step faltered; he was intruding.
But they had not seen him. The couple had eyes only for each other. Lora squealed and tried to dodge past Cerdic as he made another grab for her. He caught her around the waist and pulled her into his arms, kissing her deeply.
Aldfrith halted. Of course. I must be the last person in the tower to realize. His thoughts had turned inward of late; he had barely noticed the warming of the weather or the turning of the season. And all the while Cerdic and Lora had been falling in love.
No wonder Cerdic smiled more of late. No wonder Lora’s eyes shone.
Aldfrith watched them, noted the way Lora melted against the warrior, how he placed a possessive hand in the small of her back.
He knew Cerdic’s story, of the loss he had suffered. The warrior had dedicated himself to serving the king afterward, had shunned any emotional attachment. But meeting Lora had changed him.
He’s a braver man than me.
And yet a sliver of jealousy wormed its way into Aldfrith’s heart. If there was hope for Cerdic, could there not be hope for him too?
Aldfrith clenched his jaw and
walked across the yard, giving the couple a wide berth. No, he would not relent.
“Sire, I would speak to you a moment.”
Aldfrith glanced up from where he was playing his harp, his fingers stilling. The sound of the lament he had been playing cut off.
Bishop Wilfrid, seated to his left, was watching him with an expectant expression. Aldfrith forced himself not to frown. Wilfrid had taken to visiting Bebbanburg so regularly these days that he spent far more time at the fort than at his home in Inhrypum, where his bishopric was based.
He was a trying presence in the Great Tower, for he brought a huge retinue with him on each visit and required four alcoves for himself and his servants.
Wilfrid was still not content with his lot, and wished to extend his land farther afield. Aldfrith sensed this was what the bishop was about to raise with him now. It was all he talked of these days.
“What is it, Father?”
Wilfrid frowned, perhaps catching the sharpness in the king’s tone. “Cuthbert’s passing has left a gulf that needs to be filled, sire. Is there any word on who will be appointed the new prior?”
Aldfrith reached for his cup of wine and took a sip, letting the bishop wait before he answered. “A monk named Eadberht has come to my attention. I’m considering him for the position.”
Wilfrid’s mouth puckered. “Eadberht of Dùn Bàrr?”
“Aye, that is the man.”
“But he is a northerner, sire.”
Aldfrith favored him with a tight smile. “Aye, as am I.”
The bishop clasped his bony hands before him, his dark brows knitting together. “Milord … I have overseen Lindisfarena over these past months.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Wilfrid’s frown deepened at this, but he continued nonetheless. “I have ensured their northern habits have been tempered with my influence—of Roman ways. They were hesitant at first, but they will accept the new order soon enough.”