by Jayne Castel
“It’s a shield.”
A roar went up at that; for the riddle had been a clever one, and had whet their appetites for more.
Half listening, as another warrior tried his luck, Cynewyn passed by where Wilfrid sat quietly conversing with his bearded friend; the one Heolstor had named Aelin. The men were deep in discussion, and had not been paying attention to the riddle game. They broke off their conversation and glanced her way as she stopped before them.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Cynewyn,” Aelin smiled at her, genuine warmth in his eyes. “I know it matters not, but I am sorry for all of this. ‘Tis not right to be forced to abandon your home.”
Cynewyn found herself smiling back, although the expression felt strange on her face. How long was it since she had smiled or laughed?
“I thank you,” she murmured, deliberately keeping her gaze away from Wilfrid, who she could feel looking at her. “It has been a cruel year.”
“Did none of your kin escape Went?” Wilfrid asked, his voice gentle.
Cynewyn shook her head, fighting sudden tears. She could not look at him. Just Wil’s presence here reminded her of another world; another life. She had grown up protected by a loving family, believing that life was fair and good, and that she would marry a man who would cherish and love her, as her father had loved her mother. The reality of life, however, was injustice, neglect, loss and disappointment. She was not the same girl that Wilfrid had humiliated himself over – she felt hollowed out on the inside. If he looked into her eyes, he would see it.
Cynewyn hurriedly wiped the table and moved on then, leaving them to their conversation. The group of warriors nearby, were still exchanging riddles, their laughter echoing through the hall.
The sound grated upon Cynewyn. She wanted nothing more than to retire early – to hide behind the wall-hangings that divided her bower from the rest of the hall. Yet, since they were due to leave tomorrow, there was much to be done, much to prepare before she could sink into the welcome softness of her bed of furs.
***
“She’s comely, the ealdorman’s widow,” Aelin caught Wil’s eye and winked. “You did not mention that.”
Wil shrugged, feigning indifference. “It matters not. You saw for yourself that she has a forked tongue.”
“I’d prefer to call her ‘fiery’,” Aelin replied with a grin. “Just how I like my women.”
A hot, unexpected, blade of jealousy stabbed Wil in the guts. He snorted, unable to keep the mask in place any longer.
“Isn’t Aeva enough for you?” he asked, referring to the young woman that Aelin had been spending time with back in Rendlaesham. “Some women are not worth the trouble, believe me.”
Aelin watched Wil, his grin fading as sudden realization dawned upon him.
“Thor’s hammer – you were in love with her, weren’t you?”
“Shut your mouth,” Wil snarled back.
Aelin gave a low whistle and shook his head. “Well, that explains a lot.”
“What?” Wil snapped, suddenly hating his friend. Aelin’s sharpness, a trait that he had always liked, now grated upon him. “What does it explain?”
“Your bitterness,” Aelin replied without hesitation. “Your anger. There have been times I thought you hated women.”
Wil stared back at Aelin, momentarily struck dumb by his observation. “Enough,” he eventually ground out. “I tire of this game.”
Aelin nodded, not pushing him further, although his expression remained thoughtful. Wil pushed aside his half-empty cup of ale and got to his feet. Suddenly, he wished to be anywhere in Britannia but in this village, and in this hall.
Sometimes the past was best left alone.
Chapter Three
Departure from Blackhill
The next morning dawned cloudy and cold. Cynewyn stepped out of her hall and pulled her fur cloak close, suppressing a shiver. It was hard to believe spring was approaching; for the air still held the raw chill of winter. Gritting her teeth against the sting of the morning air on her face, Cynewyn made her way down the wooden steps and across the muddy clearing. Usually, the center of Blackhill was filled only with a few geese, or children playing. However, this morning it was heaving with men, horses and wagons; a hive of activity. Villagers were packing the wagons with as many of their possessions, and animals, as they could manage.
Cynewyn frowned when she saw some of the women were in tears. This was wrong – tearing folk from the only homes they had known, and leaving the village to those who had no right to it.
At the heart of the crowd Cynewyn found Mildthryth standing, toe to toe, with Heolstor. Her mother-in-law’s face was flushed with anger. In her arms, she carried a goose. A placid nanny-goat stood at her side.
“We’re not leaving our animals behind,” Mildthryth insisted, her voice strained from the effort she was making not to shout, “so that our enemies can have them!”
“Enough, woman!” Heolstor growled. “I tire of being argued with at every turn. If you want to bring your animals then they are your responsibility. However, I’m not towing a menagerie behind us to Rendlaesham. If you want to bring that goat, you can lead it!”
“These animals are the only wealth we have,” Mildthryth countered, not remotely cowed by the huge warrior that stood over her. “Your men need to help us fashion crates for the ducks and geese. They will have to carry more supplies on their horses so that we can use the carts for the pigs, sheep and goats.”
“You don’t give the orders here,” Heolstor’s patience snapped. “We bring what we can carry – and we leave the rest behind!”
With that, the warrior turned and strode off into the crowd, bellowing at his men. Cynewyn stepped up next to Mildthryth. She was taken aback to see the fury on her mother-in-law’s face.
“That man is a pig,” Mildthryth snarled.
Cynewyn shook her head, despair settling over her in a smothering blanket. “It’s as if we are to blame for all of this.”
“You’re not,” a male voice sounded behind them. The women turned to see Wilfrid standing close by; he had overheard the entire argument. His face, as usual, was unreadable, yet Cynewyn saw anger in his eyes. “We shall help you bring as much of your livestock as we can carry,” he told them. “Aelin is making wattle crates for your ducks and geese. We will leave as little as possible behind.”
Mildthryth nodded, her face softening. “I thank you. What’s your name?”
“Wilfrid of Went,” he replied, meeting her gaze with the barest hint of a smile on his lips.
The women watched Wilfrid walk off. He joined Aelin at the far side of the clearing, where the bearded warrior was hurriedly constructing crates.
“Wilfrid of Went. A good man that one,” Mildthryth observed quietly, “and handsome too. If only I was still young and comely. He would be just the man to warm my bed.”
“Mildthryth!” Cynewyn turned to her mother-in-law, not bothering to hide her surprise. “Surely, he’s too dour for your tastes?”
Mildthryth smiled, enjoying her daughter-in-law’s discomfort. “Once, perhaps. My husband and son were both charming,” the smile faded then, “but in many ways useless...”
“Useless?” Cynewyn interrupted her, aghast at Mildthryth’s bluntness. “How can you speak of your kin so?”
“You know it to be the truth,” her mother-in-law replied, unchastised, although her voice was tinged with sadness. “We both made a similar mistake, dear Cynewyn, in choosing appearance over substance. These days I am a little wiser. I see beyond a man’s looks and charm. There is a strength, a power in a man who says little but keeps his word. I am old now – ‘tis likely I will never have a man want me again. However, you are young enough for a second chance. I hope that, one day, you find another husband; one that doesn’t disappoint you as my son did.”
Cynewyn stared back at her mother-in-law. She had not realized it had been so painfully obvious.
“I wanted to love him,” she replied, he
r voice barely above a whisper, her eyes filling with tears.
“I know,” Mildthryth smiled, her own eyes glittering. “Watching you together was like seeing my own life replaying before me.”
She stepped forward then, and gave Cynewyn a quick, hard, hug. “Come,” she said briskly, brushing away a tear that had escaped and was running down her cheek. “We have a life to pack away.”
***
It was late morning before the folk of Blackhill finished readying themselves for departure. Standing alone inside the hall, Cynewyn could hear Heolstor berating an elderly woman who was slower the most. He had grown evermore impatient as the morning progressed, and as the sun rose toward its zenith, he started to vent his frustration.
“Stop dragging your heels, you dim-witted hag!” he roared.
Mannerless churl, she thought, casting her gaze around the interior of what had been her home for the past decade. If I was a man, I’d knock him down for that.
It was an odd sensation, standing inside the ealdorman’s hall for one last time. The hall was empty and still, in stark contrast with the frenetic activity outside. The quiet caused Cynewyn to momentarily retreat to her own world. She gazed around the interior, reflecting on the years she had spent here. The embers in the fire pit were cold, and they had stripped the space of anything valuable – yet it still looked lived in, as if the inhabitants had merely stepped out for a short while.
“Where is the ealdorman’s wife?” Heolstor’s irate voice reached Cynewyn as she walked to the center of the hall and took one last, lingering look around. “I’ve had enough of being delayed. Where is that bitch?”
Cynewyn took a deep breath and ignored the warrior’s shouting. She would leave when she was ready, and not a moment before. She had gotten used to being her own mistress of late – of no longer submitting to a man’s will – and had discovered that she enjoyed it.
When I start again in Rendlaesham it will be on my own, she told herself, a thrill of power running through her at the thought. I will not be another man’s chattel.
Suddenly, the doors to the hall opened and a silhouette – that of a man of average height, but muscular – was outlined against the pale morning light.
Wilfrid stepped inside and pulled the doors closed behind him, his gaze meeting Cynewyn’s across the wide space.
“Heolstor is getting impatient,” he said gently. Wilfrid crossed the floor toward her, his boots crunching on the rush-matting. He stopped a couple of yards from Cynewyn, their gazes still fused. “We should go.”
Cynewyn nodded, her pulse quickening. They were alone, for the first time since that day, all those years ago, when he had asked her to marry him. His nearness had a disturbing effect upon her. She suddenly felt a little short of breath and lightheaded. He was looking at her with that same, hungry intensity as he had back then; only now she was in no mood to flirt, or to dismiss him. His gaze made the fine hair on her arms prickle.
Aldwulf had never looked at her like that.
Breaking eye-contact, Cynewyn gave the hall one last look before walking past Wilfrid, toward the doors.
“Very well,” she sighed. “I am ready now.”
A breeze whispered through the trees as the procession of warriors, women, children and elderly made its way out of Blackhill and down the slope leading away from the village. The ground was muddy from the thaw, and slushy piles of snow still lay on the banks either side of the road.
Many of the warriors walked, leading the less able-bodied of Blackhill on their horses. Heolstor, one of the few warriors who had not offered his horse to one of the elderly or infirm, led the group. Heavily laden carts brought up the rear, filled with crates of indignant fowl, bleating sheep and squealing pigs. The carts trundled down the incline with a number of goats, tied to the back, trotting behind.
Cynewyn walked in the middle of the column, a heavy leather bag, filled with her few possessions slung across her front. She wore her thickest fur cloak, pulled tight about her to ward off the cold. Mildthryth walked a few paces behind her, carrying her possessions in a basket on her back.
The folk of Blackhill were subdued, and followed the king’s men silently. Many of the women were weeping, yet Cynewyn was dry-eyed. She felt oddly numb. Although Blackhill had been her home, she had not been particularly happy there. There was little she would miss. It was only pride and the promise of an uncertain future in Rendlaesham that made her cling to the past.
It was late afternoon, the pale sun low in the sky, when the travelers reached the ruins of Went. Heolstor led them around the blackened stumps of the perimeter fence, rather than taking them through the heart of the village.
Cynewyn had wanted to keep her gaze averted from the ruins, but found she could not. She stared at the collection of charred remains, at the husk of her father’s hall, and felt grief well within her. Over the years, Went had represented happiness and security, and contained the memories of a blessed childhood – but now even that was lost to her.
Blinking back scalding tears, Cynewyn glanced ahead, at where Wilfrid was leading two children atop his horse. She saw him gaze across at the ruined village and wondered if he had any regrets about leaving Went. Her father had been furious after Wil had thrown his arm rings on the floor at his feet and stormed off. Eomer of Went had been a proud man, and he had liked Wil. Cynewyn had wondered if her father ultimately blamed her for the whole incident. In many ways it had been her fault; she should not have encouraged Wil to go before her father. She had known what the ealdorman’s response would be. In truth, she had wanted to see Wil humiliated.
I was so different then, she thought with a touch of bitterness, so sure of the world and my place in it.
Cynewyn was aware then, that someone was staring at her. She looked up and met Wil’s gaze. She knew he could see her naked despair, and suddenly hated him for it. They stared at each other a moment, before Cynewyn dropped her gaze to the muddy ground. She did not look up until they had left Went, and all its memories, behind.
They had not traveled far from Went when the shadows grew deeper, and the light started to dim, warning that dusk was not far off. They now approached the thick swathe of woodland.
“Halt!”
The column had almost reached the shadowy boughs of the woods when Heolstor pulled up short, raising his hand for those following him to do the same.
Cynewyn peered ahead, frowning.
What was amiss ahead?
Her breath caught in her throat when she saw what had caused him to stop so abruptly.
A ragged company of men, all on foot and armed with axes and spears emerged from the trees. There were at least sixty of them. Lean-faced and wild-eyed, they approached the travelers warily, weapons raised.
One of the men – a huge warrior with grizzled brown hair and a heavy-featured face – stepped forward from the group. He carried a massive war-axe, and his gaze was riveted on Heolstor’s face.
“Finally,” the stranger growled before giving a wide smile that showed his teeth. “We were beginning to think you weren’t coming.”
Heolstor stared back at him, his face hard, before finally responding. “Who are you? Name yourself.”
“My name is not important,” the warrior replied, his smile fading. “We are East Saxons – that is all you need to know.”
“You’re on East Angle soil,” Heolstor’s gaze narrowed.
“This is our land,” the axe-wielding warrior replied, his own gaze narrowing.
“This land belongs to Raedwald of the East Angles,” Heolstor growled. “Would you bring his wrath down upon you?”
In response to this, the East Saxon warrior spat on the ground. “I care not for the wrath of your king. For years, these East Angle dogs have settled and worked the land that should have been ours. Stand aside and let us have their animals, any possessions of worth, and their comeliest women.” The man’s face then twisted into a leer. “You can have the rest.”
Heolstor drew his sword. �
�East Saxon whoreson – you don’t command here!”
Suddenly, there was a flutter of movement from the line of East Saxons.
Heolstor grunted.
A hand axe had hurtled through the air, and was now embedded in his chest. He stared down at it in mute shock. When he looked up, blood seeped from between his lips and dribbled down his chin. Heolstor opened his mouth to speak but no words came.
A moment later, he slumped sideways and fell off his horse.
Chapter Four
Refuge in the Woods
Cynewyn had never seen a battle, let alone been in the midst of one before. One moment, they had all been standing still, as dusk crept across the land, watching as Heolstor slid from his horse – the next, the world exploded.
Weapons drawn, the warriors on both sides gave battle cries and sprinted for each other, while the women shrank back, dragging their children with them. Tearing her eyes from the mayhem just yards in front, Cynewyn rushed back to where the villagers cowered.
“Leave the carts,” she cried. “Follow me!”
Cynewyn grabbed Mildthryth by the arm and dragged her mother-in-law after her. The older woman had frozen with fear the moment the fighting had started. She clung to Cynewyn now – taking her lead.
The villagers all did as they were told. Their prized possessions fell to the ground, the carts of livestock abandoned. The folk of Blackhill knew what capture meant; they knew what the East Saxons did to their enemies.
The roar of battle behind them spurred all of the villagers – young and old – on. Cynewyn knew she needed to lead the folk in a wide circle around the fighting and into the woods. Once they reached the trees, if they could get past the fighting and escape into the woodland, the villagers might have a chance.
“Make for the woods!” Cynewyn pushed Mildthryth ahead. “Go left and skirt the edge of the fighting. I’ll get the stragglers.”
Mildthryth nodded, her face pale but resolute. “Come!” her mother-in-law dropped her basket of belongings on to the ground, for it would only slow her down, and picked up her skirts. “Follow me!”