by Jayne Castel
They stood so close, he could have easily have bent his head and kissed her then. Yet, Cynewyn could see that she had hurt him too deeply for him to ever make such an attempt again. They had left that path behind in the shadowy woods. She had made that choice; it was too late to regret it now.
As if reading her thoughts, his lip curled and he stepped back from her.
“I made an ill choice all those years ago,” he told her coldly. “Pining for a woman who thought me no better than a dog to run at her heels. However, those days are over. Leave me alone Cynewyn – I have no wish to speak with you again.”
With that, he left the dwelling, and moments later, she heard the sound of iron against wood as he resumed work.
Sick to her stomach, Cynewyn left the structure and walked away without a backward glance. She knew she should not care. After all, this was entirely her doing – it was her choice, her preference.
Why then, did her vision blur with tears?
She made her way along the dirt road, back to Rendlaesham’s gates, before walking up the wide thoroughfare that led up to the ‘Golden Hall’. The spring weather had brought the folk of Rendlaesham outdoors. Children played on the streets, their cries echoing in the warm air, and women sat outside at their distaffs and looms, enjoying the sun on their faces as they worked. Once she reached the King’s Hall, Cynewyn would also return to ‘woman’s work’; an afternoon of winding wool onto a spindle, ready to be used on a loom, awaited her.
Not relishing the prospect, Cynewyn slowed her pace and inhaled the aroma of freshly baking bread as she passed the ovens. The door to the low-slung building was open and she caught sight of the baker removing a batch of honey cakes from the massive clay oven. Acknowledging his cheery wave with a strained smile, Cynewyn continued up the street, past the mead hall. The mead hall was empty – it was too early in the day, the weather too bright, for drinking.
In just one moon’s cycle, Rendlaesham had come to feel like home. Cynewyn preferred it to Blackhill; this town was vibrant and prosperous compared to her dying village. Yet, today, nothing – not the sun on her face, nor the carefree sound of children’s laughter – could lift her mood.
She entered the stable yard beneath the ‘Golden Hall’, and was half-way across it when a blond youth intercepted her.
“How goes it M’lady?”
Cynewyn, interrupted from bleak thoughts, recognized him as the stable hand who had helped her with her horse when she arrived at Rendlaesham. She had seen him a few times since then, and had caught him staring at her more than once.
“Wes hāl,” she greeted him distractedly. She was vaguely irritated that he was effectively blocking her path, forcing her to halt and speak to him.
“‘Tis a fair day, is it not?” he grinned, his gaze sweeping down from her face over her body, lingering on her curves. She was wearing a blue woolen wealca – a long tunic dress clasped at the shoulders by two broaches over a long linen tunic – that left her arms bare. It was a plain dress but the color matched her eyes. However, it was not the dress he was admiring.
She nodded, and was just about to step around him and continue on her way, when his gaze met hers once more.
“Are you well?” he asked, the grin fading slightly. “You’re very pale.”
Cynewyn shook her head, irritated that her misery was so evident. “I am just weary, ‘tis all,” she replied. She moved past him then, just as he was about to say something else, and hurried toward the steps. Cynewyn could not face men these days, especially not after what Wil had just said to her. She wanted only to be left alone.
She had almost reached the steps when a rumbling noise, like rolling thunder, reached her.
Horses.
Swiveling on her heel, Cynewyn watched a stream of men on horseback enter the stable yard. They were warriors dressed in battered and dirt-encrusted leather armor; shields on their backs and spears at their sides. Cynewyn’s stomach twisted – she had not thought this day could get any worse.
The king had returned to Rendlaesham.
***
The roar of voices inside the King’s Hall was deafening.
Ealdormen, thegns and their kin jostled for a place at one of the long tables, readying themselves for a great feast. Slaves were spit-roasting the carcasses of two deer over the great hearth at the center of the hall. The air was thick with smoke, despite the gaps in the ceiling above, which had been designed to let the smoke out. However, the aroma of roasting meat made up for the discomfort of stinging eyes and irritated lungs.
Slaves carried great wheels of griddle bread around the hall, depositing it next to the platters of roast carrots and onions that sat on the long tables lining the hall. Others carried jugs of mead around, filling up the feasters’ cups.
Cynewyn held out her cup to be filled before taking a large gulp of the pungent drink. She had never enjoyed mead, especially after it became her husband’s greatest solace; yet this eve she sought to numb herself. She was seated near the head of the table, at the king’s insistence, and knew that it boded ill for her.
To make matters worse, Raedwald had insisted that Wil also sat at his end. To his credit, Wil looked as if he would rather be anywhere but here. Yet, Raedwald, who was already well into his cups this evening, did not appear to notice his thegn’s grim expression. Wil sat facing Cynewyn, although a little further up the table. He did not look her way once as the meal begun.
Next to Cynewyn, Mildthryth helped herself to some griddle bread and smiled at the man seated to her right. His name was Coenred; he was another one of the king’s thegns. A balding man with bright blue eyes and a booming laugh, Coenred had formed an attachment with the widow since their arrival at Rendlaesham. For the past few days both Coenred and Mildthryth had made sure that they sat near to each other at every meal.
Cynewyn, despite her misery, was delighted for her mother-in-law’s burgeoning happiness. She knew that Mildthryth had despaired of ever finding love; she had been widowed a long while and had not dared to hope that she might marry once again. Coenred did not bother to hide his infatuation. Even now, he did not take his gaze off the petite blonde beside him.
Cynewyn heard Mildthryth laugh at something her suitor had whispered in her ear, and noted the joy in that sound. She had never heard Mildthryth laugh like that before. She looked a decade younger this eve. Her cheeks were flushed, although not with mead; her eyes bright with laughter as she gazed into Coenred’s eyes.
A wistful smile curled the edges of Cynewyn’s mouth then. No one deserved happiness more than Mildthryth.
Cynewyn looked away from the happy couple and took another deep draught of mead, feeling warmth seep through her body. For the first time she understood why Aldwulf had sought oblivion in drink.
“A toast,” Raedwald’s voice boomed across his hall, drawing the feasters’ attention. He held out his cup to be refilled. “To victory!”
Opposite the king, his son – Eorpwald – raised his own cup. The lad was sporting a nasty gash on his left forearm after their skirmish with the East Saxon war band on the kingdom’s southern border. However, his gaze was bright with triumph this evening. The prince looked older, and surer of himself, compared to the last time Cynewyn had seen him.
“Was it the work of the East Saxon king?” Wil asked, his gaze meeting Raedwald’s. “Did he send his men to attack us?”
Raedwald shook his head. “They were outlaws who believed that the land south of the woods belonged to the East Saxons, not the East Angles. Their king had already denied them but they decided to take the land anyway.”
“We met them near Blackhill,” Eorpwald spoke for the first time, his voice low but firm. “Their numbers had swollen to nearly a hundred, as word of their victory over the folk of Went and Blackhill spread.”
“It was a bloody fight,” Raedwald slapped his son across the back, “but in the end we had our vengeance.”
“So King Sexred really had no idea?” Cynewyn blurted out, incredulou
s. She could not believe those warriors, who had destroyed Went and killed her husband, had not been sent by their king.
“No,” Raedwald’s gaze met hers. “To be sure, we rode south to Colenceaster, and I spoke to Sexred himself. I am content that the East Saxon King spoke the truth. They were outlaws; the matter has now been dealt with.”
The matter has not been dealt with, Cynewyn thought, silently fuming. No amount of bloodshed would ever bring her parents back, or would ever right the wrongs that had been committed against her people.
“Can’t we rebuild Went and resettle Blackhill?” she asked. “Surely, we can reclaim our land now that the outlaws have been dealt with?”
“No, there are too few of you left,” the hard edge to the king’s tone was unmistakable. “You will remain here at Rendlaesham.”
Silence fell at the table and Cynewyn looked down at the wooden plate before her. She burned to argue the point and had to bite down on her tongue to stop herself. The king considered the matter closed; she would be a fool to anger him now.
“Wilfrid,” Raedwald turned to his thegn. “Speaking of the folk of Blackhill, how goes the building?”
“Well, Milord,” Wil replied with a tight smile. “Another moon’s cycle and the villagers can move into their new homes.”
The king nodded, pleased at the news, before turning his attention to the platters of roast venison that slaves were now bringing to the table. He helped himself to a huge plate. Further down the table, Cynewyn took a slice of roast venison. She was picking at her meal, her appetite dulled, when the king called her name.
“Lady Cynewyn,” Raedwald fixed her in that disarming midnight blue gaze of his – and Cynewyn knew she would not like what was coming. “On my return journey from Colenceaster I spoke with a man who will make you an excellent husband. He’s one of my ealdorman, of course. Oxa of Soham. Like you, he is recently widowed.”
“Oxa? Isn’t he a bit old for Lady Cynewyn, fæder?” the king’s daughter, Raedwyn, spoke up from where she had been sitting quietly beside her mother, listening to the conversation with interest.
The king cast an indulgent gaze over his golden haired daughter. “He’s not that old, Raedwyn. You speak with the eyes of the very young. He’s fifteen winters older than our Lady Cynewyn, no more.”
Raedwald then turned his attention back to Cynewyn. “What say you Milady? Shall I send for Oxa, so you can meet him?”
Cynewyn felt like a hare trapped by wolves on all sides. She was painfully aware of Wil sitting there, his presence radiating out toward her like a furnace. However, she did not make the error of looking his way. He would not thank her for it.
“As you wish, Milord,” she bowed her head so that none present could see the despair in her eyes.
“Very well,” the king raised his cup once more for a passing slave to refill. “If I send for Oxa tomorrow, he should arrive here just after Beltaine. Let us make us another toast – for it will be an excellent match!”
Chapter Ten
Beltaine
Outside of the walls of Rendlaesham, the folk built two large bonfires from birch branches and twigs in preparation for the fertility festival – Beltaine. Meanwhile, inside the walls bustled with activity as a group of men erected a birch May pole in the market square, and women placed bouquets and garlands of bright yellow, sweet-smelling gorse flowers throughout the town. The gorse flower’s bright yellow evoked the sun; Beltaine celebrated fertility and the rebirth of warmth and light of the coming summer.
The weather was warming and a buzz of excitement regarding the approaching festival, infused Rendlaesham.
Cynewyn was one of the few who did not view the steadily growing mounds of twigs on the edge of the apple orchards with anticipation. The May pole merely reminded her of her coming union with a man she had never met. The cloying scent of the gorse flowers reminded her of the garlands that would surround her during the handfasting. It was all she could do, in the days before Beltaine, not to bolt from Rendlaesham.
She would have, had there been somewhere to go.
The days slid by with terrifying swiftness. Cynewyn did her best to keep busy, helping the other women in the Great Hall with their endless chores of sewing, weaving, winding and mending.
Often, she would bring her work outside and sit on the wide terrace before the great oaken doors of the ‘Golden Hall’. Working in daylight was better for her eyes and it was a relief to be free of the fetid, smoky air inside the hall. Up on the terrace, the air was warm and the sweet perfume of blossom laced the breeze. From this height, she had an unobstructed view of the surrounding landscape – the spray of pale pink blossom from the apple orchards, and the explosion of bright green from the willows lining the stream far below. Cynewyn could see why the Wuffinga kings had decided to build their Great Hall here. Rendlaesham sat in an idyllic spot; a place the locals were proud to call home.
Only, it would not be her home for much longer. Soon, Oxa of Soham would take her away from Rendlaesham, away from Mildthryth and the folk of Blackhill – the only people she cared for. The only folk who cared what happened to her.
A hard knot of dread formed in Cynewyn’s belly at the thought.
Try as she might, Cynewyn could not stall the steady progress of time, and eventually, the eve of Beltaine arrived.
A warm, breezy day drew to a close in a gentle, golden sunset. At dusk, the wind died and the air grew still and heavy with the smell of lush grass, gorse and blossom. Due to the mild weather, the townsfolk, including the king and his kin, feasted outdoors.
Cynewyn would have preferred to have hidden away, and let the folk of Rendlaesham enjoy their festival without her company, but it was impossible. She was part of the King’s Hall now, and the king’s daughter, Raedwyn, had developed a particular fondness for her. The girl’s excitement for the Beltaine celebrations showed on her face as she walked through the milling crowds, arm in arm with Cynewyn.
“Haven’t they done a wonderful job of the decorations?” Raedwyn gasped, her gaze sweeping over the garlands of yellow spring flowers that hung from the surrounding trees, looping in streamers between the apple trees.
Cynewyn nodded and gave the princess a smile. “‘Tis magical,” she admitted.
Together, they made their way over to the long feasting tables. Nearby, lamb and goat kid roasted over fire pits, while a spread of delicacies waited upon the tables: honey griddle cakes, rich breads studded with seeds, tureens of thick cream, baskets of strawberries and raspberries, massive wheels of cheese and bowls of fresh spring greens. It was all luscious, rich food – all laid out to represent, and encourage, fertility.
Raedwyn and Cynewyn sat down toward the end of one of the long tables, upon a low bench. Around them, some of the townsfolk were already beating the drums of Beltaine; a throbbing rhythm, designed to awaken revelers’ passions as the eve progressed. Slaves poured frothy cups of mead, a necessity at Beltaine, and passed them around the table.
Cynewyn watched as Mildthryth took a seat next to Coenred further down the table. Neither of them bothered to hide their infatuation for each other, not on this eve. Coenred fed Mildthryth a strawberry before leaning down to give her kiss.
Tears stung Cynewyn’s eyes and she looked away. She was happy for them both but their joy just made her misery cut deeper.
It had been a mistake to attend Beltaine. She should have begged off, or feigned sickness – anything to avoid spending the night surrounded by lovers. Aelin and Aeva sat together at another table, unable to keep their hands and lips off each other. Later, many couples would go ‘green gowning’. They would run off into the trees, find a secluded spot and make love. It was the night of joining.
Cynewyn took a sip of mead and let her gaze travel around the tables. She was looking for a familiar face, searching for a man she had not seen in days.
Wil had made an even greater effort to avoid her of late; ever since Raedwald had announced the name of her husband-to-be. His actions did n
ot surprise her, especially after their last conversation, and yet she found herself missing him. The sensation was a constant ache at the base of her ribs, with her day and night.
She eventually spied Wil at a table on the far side of the clearing. He was chatting to another warrior. The man said something and Wil laughed. Watching him, Cynewyn felt her chest constrict; she had not forgotten how handsome he was when he smiled, how it transformed his face. The sight of him enjoying himself only added fuel to her misery. It appeared that he had made the wise decision of moving on and forgetting her. Cynewyn stared down at her hands and bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from crying.
No – she should never have let Raedwyn talk her into attending Beltaine.
“Cynewyn?” Raedwyn’s sweet voice reached her, tinged with concern. “Are you well?”
Cynewyn looked up and schooled her features into a serene mask. “Of course,” she said brightly. “Would you pass me the strawberries, Raedwyn?”
The Beltaine fires roared, illuminating the still night. The drums beat a primal rhythm and the folk of Rendlaesham celebrated. They danced with oblivion, fueled by strong mead and rich food. They danced to celebrate the end of a bitter winter and the joy of the coming summer – to rejoice in abundance and growth.
The king and queen sat upon a wooden dais, watching the dancing. Their daughter sat with them; Raedwyn was too young to take part in the revelry, and these days Raedwald and Seaxwyn preferred to watch the dancers rather than join them.
Cynewyn hung back as far as she was able from the revelry. She had no desire to take part. Even the mead she had drunk had not numbed the ache in her chest; if anything it had brought her regrets to the fore.
Her gaze moved over the crowd, once again looking for Wil. However, this time, she did not find him.