by Jayne Castel
Oswald's face was pinched and tired. He looked as if Cerdic had made him ride through the night, which he probably had in order to get to Inhrypum and back in this time.
Aldfrith stood at the top of the steps before the Great Tower and waited for the priest to dismount. Oswald did so, wincing as his sandaled feet hit the ground. Straightening up and brushing off his dark robes, Oswald’s gaze traveled to where the king stood watching him.
The priest’s brow furrowed.
Not bothering to say a word to Cerdic, Oswald picked up the hem of his robes and hurried across the yard, head bowed, before mounting the steps. Cerdic tossed his reins to one of the other men and strode after him.
“Milord.” Oswald stopped a few feet below where the king stood and gave a hurried bow. Aldfrith could see he was bristling, indignant.
“Good day, Oswald,” Aldfrith replied with a smile. “I take it that Cerdic has told you why you’ve been summoned back to Bebbanburg so urgently.”
Oswald nodded, his throat bobbing. It was clear he held a strong opinion about this, which he was wisely keeping to himself.
The priest was no fool. Over the past years he had skulked in Wilfrid’s shadow whenever the bishop visited the fort, often appearing his disciple. But without his mentor at his side he was less brave. He knew his place, and Aldfrith was grateful for it; he was tired of being constantly challenged.
Relations with the ealdormen Wulfred and Edwin had been frosty ever since his return. They had both tried to heckle him over his lack of interest in rebuilding Northumbria’s army during supper the night before. His calmness and accompanying stubbornness had riled them both. However, he knew it would not be the end of the matter.
It seemed his ealdormen were only too eager to warmonger, but Aldfrith would have no part in it.
Before the king, Oswald bowed his head, his shoulders rounding. He was not a happy man, yet he was ready to do the king’s bidding.
“Come, Oswald,” Aldfrith ordered gently. “My bride awaits.”
Osana stood upon the high seat and faced the King of Northumbria. Dressed simply, yet richly, Aldfrith was distractingly handsome today. A black leather vest studded in gold and iron covered his chest, leaving his finely muscled arms bare. His father’s fine grey wolfskin cloak hung from his shoulders, clasped by a gleaming amber brooch. He wore doeskin breeches and long dark boots.
Aldfrith looked down at her, his expression soft, his eyes tender.
Finally, they were about to be wed.
There had been moments, as she lay awake in her alcove listening to the soft sound of Lora’s breathing, when she had worried it would never happen. And yet here she was, dressed in a soft green gown that fitted her curves snugly, with meadow daisies woven through her hair.
The aroma of roasting meat drifted through the hall as the final preparations were made for the feast that would follow the handfasting. A murmur of voices surrounded them as the folk of Bebbanburg—both those who resided within the inner palisade, and many of those who lived in the tightly packed streets beyond—pushed into the Great Hall.
Osana breathed in the excitement surrounding her. Despite her fears, the mood was joyous. There would be a handful of folk among the crowd, Mildryth and Eldflaed among them, who watched her with hard eyes, but most people who jostled for position on the floor below the high seat seemed in high spirits. There were few who did not like a handfasting.
Lora and Cerdic stood nearby, with the king’s most loyal retainers. Lora and Osana shared a look, before her friend grinned. Beside Lora, Cerdic was smiling, his arm draped protectively around her shoulders.
Osana shifted her attention back to Aldfrith. He gave her a melting look in return that made her breathing hitch. Tonight they would lie together as husband and wife.
They stood before Oswald, who hunched between them like a trapped hare. The priest’s face was solemn, his gaze pained. He cleared his throat and stepped forward, a length of linen in his hands.
The hum of voices around them died. Expectation charged the air.
“The union of man and wife is a union of two souls,” Oswald began, holding the ribbon aloft. “This cord is not permanent but perishable. It is a reminder that all things of the material eventually return to the earth, unlike the bond and the connection that is love, which is eternal.” The priest’s voice, although low, carried over the now silent hall. Oswald’s gaze darted up to Aldfrith and then Osana. “Please join your right hands.”
They did as bid. Osana’s breathing quickened as Aldfrith wove his fingers through hers and squeezed. Then Oswald stepped close to them and started to wind the ribbon around their joined hands. And as he wrapped the ribbon, he spoke the words that would bind them.
“With this cloth I bind your souls
May you know nothing but happiness from this day forward.
May the road rise to meet you
May the wind be always at your back
May the warm rays of sun fall upon your home
And may the hand of a friend always be near.
May green be the grass you walk on,
May blue be the skies above you,
May pure be the joys that surround you,
May true be the hearts that love you.”
Oswald finished speaking, and a deep hush fell in the hall. The priest, who had now lost his cowed expression, straightened his spine, his gaze returning to Aldfrith and Osana. “I now—”
“Wait! This handfasting is a farce—it must not take place!”
A harsh voice carried across the hall.
Unfortunately, it was a voice that Osana had come to know well. She tore her gaze from Aldfrith’s and let it travel across the sea of heads between them and the heavy doors that led out into the entrance hall.
There, framed in the doorway, was a tall robed figure.
Bishop Wilfrid’s face was the color of liver, his gaze livid. Even at this distance, Osana could feel the weight of his rage.
“This ceremony must stop,” he roared, spittle flying. “I name the bride a ‘wicce’. She has ensnared the king, but now this evil business will end.”
The vehemence in those words caused ice to wash over Osana, dousing her excitement and joy in an instant. Such hate. Yet as she watched him, she realized that Wilfrid’s wrath was not aimed at her but at Aldfrith. His gaze speared the king, dislike carved into his gaunt face.
Realization dawned. This was revenge for every imagined slight against him over the past years, every time the king had thwarted his plans. After Aldfrith had so effectively curtailed the bishop’s power, Wilfrid would not see the king happy. Like the ealdormen, he wanted Aldfrith as his puppet. If he would not do his bidding, then he would be punished.
During the interruption, Aldfrith had not spoken a word.
Tearing her gaze from the bishop, Osana glanced across at the man who had just been moments away from becoming her husband—her breathing stilling when she saw his face.
His skin was bloodless and pulled tight over his cheekbones. He wore an expression she had never yet seen, chilling in its fury. He looked dangerous—angry enough to kill.
Aldfrith had been watching the bishop, but now he shifted his attention to the foot of the high seat where two leather-clad figures stood: Edwin of Gefrin and Wulfred of Catraeth. Osana followed Aldfrith’s gaze, her belly clenching when she observed the men’s faces.
Both had worn sour expressions before the ceremony, yet their mood had altered now. Wulfred smirked, his mouth twitching as if he was swallowing a laugh. Next to him Edwin did not even attempt to hide his glee. A broad smile twisted his face, and his eyes gleamed.
“Cousin Edwin,” Aldfrith growled. “Please tell me you’re not behind this?”
Edwin’s broad smile widened further. “I cannot lie, sire.” The victory in the ealdorman’s voice made Osana wince. “I had one of my men follow yours south to Inhrypum. Someone had to tell the bishop.”
“You slippery bastard.” Cerdic had left Lora
’s side and now stepped forward, hands clenched, his face a mask of fury. “You had no place to have me followed.”
“But it was just as well he did.” Wilfrid was now elbowing his way through the crowd.
“And as for you, bishop,” Cerdic growled. “Someone should teach you how to speak to a king.”
“Cerdic.” Aldfrith’s voice held a sharp warning. “Step down. I will deal with this.”
The warrior frowned. “But sire—”
“You heard me.”
Cerdic’s frown deepened to a scowl, yet he did as bid.
Meanwhile, the bishop had nearly reached the front of the crowd. “Oswald you fool—what are you doing?”
“Father …” The priest blanched, shuffling back slightly. “I had to—”
“Faithless craven,” Wilfrid spat. “I shall deal with you later. For now, untie the ribbon. Let this travesty end.”
Oswald did not move. “Father, I don’t think—”
“Do it!”
Still, the priest did not move.
“Untie the ribbon, Oswald.” It was Aldfrith who made the command this time, his voice low and cold. The king did not look Oswald’s way as he spoke; instead his gaze remained fixed upon the bishop, who bore down upon him like an enraged crow.
Wilfrid had drawn a wooden crucifix out from under his robes. He now held it out before him as he approached, as if he was warding off Satan himself. “I shun the witch’s evil eye!”
Around him, the crowd shuffled back from the high seat to let the bishop through. His comment brought mutterings, and many folk crossed themselves, sharing nervous glances.
Osana’s heart started to pound. Wilfrid was clever; he was playing on the mob’s superstitions. If he had his way, she would be stoned out of Bebbanburg and drowned in the sea.
Meanwhile, Oswald had done as Aldfrith had bid and deftly unwrapped the ribbon binding Osana and the king’s right hands.
As soon as he was free, Aldfrith moved.
It happened so swiftly, in barely a heartbeat, that Osana had no chance to reach out for Aldfrith, to forestall him.
One instant he had been standing at her side, the next he stepped down off the high seat and struck out with his right fist.
The crunch of the blow echoed through the hall. Wilfrid, who had just opened his mouth to spew forth another volley of vitriol, staggered, his head snapping back under the force of the punch.
A moment later the bishop went down like a sack of millet on the rush covered floor.
Chapter Thirty-two
Not Worthy of the Crown
SILENCE REVERBERATED AROUND the hall.
Edwin of Gefrin was the first to recover from the shock of seeing Bishop Wilfrid laid out for all to see. He stepped away from Wulfred’s side, his face a mask of self-righteous anger. “Witness all. Your king has struck down a man of God!”
Aldfrith turned, fists still clenched, to face the ealdorman. “Still your tongue, Edwin.” The warning was spoken softly, cold rage inflected in every word.
But Edwin would not be silenced. Watching from atop the high seat, frozen to the spot as if her feet had grown roots, Osana felt a sickly realization wash over her. She felt as if this whole scene had been orchestrated, as if all of them—Wilfrid included—had merely been playing a part.
It was this man, Aldfrith’s cousin Edwin, who was manipulating them all. And now he stepped forward to perform the last part of his carefully planned act.
“A king who would strike down a bishop is not worthy of the crown.” A groan followed his words as, on the rushes a few feet away, Wilfrid stirred. However, Edwin was not looking at the bishop. His attention was upon Aldfrith, whom he now stalked toward with the predatory stealth of a wolf.
A warning screamed in the back of Osana’s skull, a moment before she saw Edwin stoop down and retrieve something from his boot. Iron gleamed in the firelight.
A seax.
Weapons were forbidden inside the Great Hall: to carry one was an insult to the king. Yet Edwin wielded a blade now, and Osana knew what he planned to do.
Edwin wanted the crown.
“Aldfrith,” she gasped, lunging toward the men. Oswald grabbed hold of her, hauling her back. “Wait, Lady Osana,” he grunted. “It’s too dangerous.”
But Aldfrith had also seen the blade—as had the folk clustered closest to the foot of the high seat. Many of their faces blanched, their eyes growing wide with fear.
“It’s time a warrior fit to rule took his rightful place in this hall,” Edwin said, flashing Aldfrith a vicious grin. “Not a craven scholar.”
And with that Edwin lunged.
A scream split the air. It was Lora, for Cerdic—casting aside the king’s earlier command—leaped forward to intercept his attacker.
But before Cerdic reached Edwin, Wulfred of Catraeth tackled the warrior, bringing him down. The ealdorman of Catraeth was not going to let Edwin be thwarted. Grunts ensued as the two men fought on the floor.
Edwin kept moving, the blade of the fighting dagger flashing as he swung it toward the king.
Helpless, unable to do anything but watch the scene unfold, Osana stared at that blade. Grief ripped into her chest, making it impossible to breathe. The man she loved was about to die.
Aldfrith did not panic, did not cry out. He watched Edwin lunge for him, and then did the last thing Osana expected.
He moved toward him, sidestepping the blade, and grabbed hold of the ealdorman’s thick wrist.
Edwin had been moving so fast that the momentum carried him straight into the king. Aldfrith brought his leg up sharply and kneed his attacker in the cods before felling him with a sharp blow to the side of his neck.
Edwin of Gefrin was a big man, his body a coiled mass of muscle built over a lifetime of fighting, but Aldfrith’s blow easily felled him nonetheless. Edwin roared as he fell, clutching his injured cods with one hand, his blade still gripped in the other.
Aldfrith stepped forward and slammed his foot down on the ealdorman’s wrist, grinding it into the ground until the man released his hold on the seax.
Then, the king reached down and retrieved it. When he spoke, his voice carried over the hall. “Aye, I’m a scholar, Edwin … but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to defend myself.” His voice was chill. “My uncle Daragh taught me well it seems.”
“Your mother was an Ériu hōre,” Edwin grunted, still defiant. “Just because Oswiu sired you doesn’t give you the right to be king. I’m of pure Angle blood, Oswiu’s nephew … it should have been me.”
“It takes more than blood to make a king,” Aldfrith replied, “and you’ve just proved you’re not worthy of the crown.”
Edwin spat out a series of expletives that caused the crowd around him to gasp. Aldfrith remained unmoved.
A few feet away, Cerdic got to his feet, blood streaming from his nose. Wulfred of Catraeth did not rise. He lay curled up, hands cupping a bloodied mouth.
Aldfrith turned to his captain. “Cerdic, see to it that these two men are stripped naked, tied over the back of their horses, and driven out of Bebbanburg. Send word to Gefrin and Catraeth that they are in need of new ealdormen, for these two men no longer hold that rank.”
Cerdic nodded, pinching his bleeding nose. “I will see it done, sire,” he replied, his voice muffled.
Osana felt the priest’s grip on her arm release. Like her, he realized the danger had passed; Aldfrith had taken control of the situation. A respectful silence now filled the hall.
Cerdic and his men closed in on the two former ealdormen, hauling them to their feet. Around them the crowd opened, creating a passageway to the doors. Pallid and wild-eyed, Wulfred and Edwin struggled against their captors, their howls of rage and curses echoing for a long while after their departure.
Aldfrith turned to his remaining warriors, who had now formed a protective horseshoe around the king. “Get the bishop to his feet.”
Wilfrid groaned as two men hauled him upright. A purple welt now s
howed on his jaw where Aldfrith had struck him, and his gaze was glazed.
“You’re an ambitious fool, Father,” Aldfrith said after a long pause, regret shadowing the coolness in his voice. “Edwin played you like a lyre, used you as his weapon, and you never saw it.”
The bishop sagged in the warriors’ arms, and seeing the desolation on his face, Osana almost felt sorry for him. A moment later she remembered how he had treated her, how he would have had her killed if it had served his purpose, and her pity faded.
“Forgive me, sire,” he rasped.
“I will, in time,” Aldfrith replied. “But that does not mean I will suffer your presence in my kingdom any longer. Bishop Wilfrid, you are exiled. Take your leave of this hall, and be gone from Northumbria, never to return.”
Wilfrid blanched, his eyes bulging. “Milord, I—”
“That is all,” Aldfrith cut him off, his voice sharp. “Another word, and you shall suffer the same fate as the ealdormen.”
Wilfrid’s mouth worked, yet no sound came out this time. Silently, he allowed the warriors to lead him from the hall.
A shocked hush followed in his wake. All gazes swiveled back to the king once the bishop had departed. Osana watched their faces, her own shock mirroring theirs. She too had never seen this side to Aldfrith. It both impressed and frightened her.
Did she know the man she was to wed at all?
Aldfrith turned from the crowd and stepped back up onto the high seat, sheathing the seax in his belt as he did so. His gaze, when it met hers, was of the man she had come to know and love. The cold fury of earlier had gone.
“Aldfrith,” she whispered. “I …” Her voice trailed off. She was not sure what to say.
His mouth quirked, and his eyes shadowed. “I’m sorry you had to see that, my love,” he replied, regret edging his voice. “It seems I have far more of my father in me than I thought.”
“And we are glad of it, sire.” Oswald spoke up nervously. “The bishop went too far … and Edwin had to be stopped.”