by Jayne Castel
I was a fool, she thought bitterly. She had pushed him away for a hope, an illusion – one the king had shattered. I could have been his, she thought, letting the tears run silently down her face. Instead, I told him he wasn’t good enough for me. I got what I deserved in return; an arranged marriage to a stranger.
There was no point in lamenting her choices now, not when Wil hated her and her new husband was on his way to Rendlaesham. However, there was an odd relief in admitting it to herself.
She remembered Mildthryth’s words back in Blackhill, when she had shocked Cynewyn by telling her that men like her late husband and son never made good husbands.
I would have been happy with Wil, she thought wiping away the last of her tears. Only it matters not now.
“M’lady Cynewyn – you look ravishing this eve.”
A male voice suddenly intruded upon her thoughts and Cynewyn looked up to see the blond stable hand staring down at her. He was tall, even taller than Aldwulf had been, and she had to crane her neck to meet his gaze. His eyes were bright, his cheeks flushed with mead, and the firelight caught the angles of his handsome face.
“Good evening,” Cynewyn greeted him with a bright smile, hoping that he did not see that she had been crying. “You know my name, but it seems I do not know yours.”
“Tolan,” he grinned, stepping closer to her. “I made it my business to learn your name the moment you arrived in Rendlaesham M’lady. Your beauty stole my heart.”
Cynewyn shook her head, her smile turning rueful. “You flatter me. There are many women as pretty in Rendlaesham.”
Tolan shook his head, his expression turning serious. “‘Tis the truth. Your eyes are the color of a summer’s sky, your skin is like milk, your lips are like rose petals, your hair is…”
Cynewyn’s laughter cut him off. “Please,” she said, not unkindly, before placing a hand on his arm. “I am a widow, not a blushing young maid you need to impress.”
The young man looked momentarily crestfallen, although the fact that she had touched his arm, emboldened him.
“Dance with me!” he placed his hand over where hers gently rested on his forearm, and pulled her toward the nearest fire. “Let us celebrate Beltaine together, as man and woman – not stable hand and widow!”
Cynewyn shook her head and pulled back from him.
“No, Tolan.” For the first time since he had approached her, she felt a twinge of discomfort. The mead had made him bold, far bolder than he had right to be. “I don’t wish to dance.”
“Come, Cynewyn,” he took hold of her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. “I will not take ‘no’ for an answer.”
“Look at that,” Aelin nudged Wil on the arm and pointed at the nearest fire. “Tolan’s asked Cynewyn to dance.”
Wil looked up from where he had been staring down at his boots, and followed his friend’s gaze, across the jostling crowd to where a young man pulled Cynewyn toward the dancing. Jealousy slashed through him – the sensation so sharp it momentarily took his breath away. He knew Tolan. The youth was full of himself, but Wil could not believe he had managed to convince Cynewyn to dance with him.
Isn’t a stable hand beneath you? He thought bitterly.
For his part, Wil had spent the evening trying to ignore Cynewyn, even when he had sensed her gaze upon him. He had been trying to fade into the shadows, and had found a quiet spot against an apple tree. But Aelin, having taken a break from the dancing, had sought him out.
“He doesn’t have a chance with Cynewyn,” Aelin observed, wiping sweat from his brow. “Isn’t her betrothed due to arrive here at any moment?”
Wil nodded, his gaze still riveted on the fire, where Tolan pulled Cynewyn into his arms and twirled her around. Was it his imagination, or did she appear to be resisting him?
“Either tomorrow or the day after,” he replied tonelessly.
Wil felt Aelin’s gaze upon him, and wished his friend would leave him be, retrieve Aeva and rejoin the dancing. He was not in the mood for company this eve.
“Something happened between you after the ambush?” Aelin asked finally. “Didn’t it?”
Wil tore his gaze away from the dancing, his gaze narrowing.
“What?”
“You heard me. You’ve not been the same since.”
“Leave it be,” Wil growled. “You know nothing.”
Aelin shook his head and gave Wil a rueful smile. “I’m no fool. I saw her staring at you tonight – and just then when you looked at her, I saw it in your eyes. Why are you letting her go?”
“To let someone go they need to have been yours to begin with,” Wil replied, his voice bleak.
Aelin’s smile widened. “I knew it.”
“Go torment someone else,” Wil replied, angry now. “So I’ve just proved you right – congratulations.”
Aelin watched him silently a moment. Wil’s gaze returned briefly to the dancing, where Tolan had his hands around Cynewyn’s waist and was pulling her against him. The sight made him feel sick. His stomach knotted in rage.
“Your time is running out Wil,” Aelin told him gently. “I’m going to find Aeva now. You get your wish; I’ll leave you in peace. Remember this though – a man only has a few chances in life to make things right. Don’t waste this one.”
With that, Aelin walked off, disappearing into the heaving crowd of revelers. Wil watched him go, conflict writhing within him. Aelin’s self-righteous advice made him want to smash his fist into his friend’s face. Yet at the same time he knew Aelin was right.
Wil looked back at the dancing, his gaze scanning the silhouettes of men and woman in front of the flames, as he looked for Cynewyn. Moments later, Wil’s anger and frustration dissolved. His breath stilled and alarm coursed through him.
Cynewyn and Tolan had disappeared.
Cynewyn stumbled through the undergrowth, panic clawing at her breast. Behind her, she heard a man’s heavy tread, the rasp of his breathing.
“Cynewyn,” Tolan’s voice was rough with passion. “Don’t run from me.”
But run, she did. She had not wanted to dance with him; she had made that clear. Yet, he had dragged her into the revelry and forced her to, while he man-handled her like a piece of meat. His charm, his easy manner and flattery had made her trust him; however, the moment he dragged her toward the bonfire, she had known the truth.
This man wanted her, and intended to have her tonight, whatever the cost.
Round and round the fire they had danced, and then, suddenly, Tolan had pulled her away from the dancers and into the bushes behind. Cynewyn, seized with terror, had kicked him in the shins and made a run for it.
She had been glad of the cover that the undergrowth provided, but when she broke free of the bushes, Cynewyn realized that she was easy prey. She sprinted down the hill, in-between the lines of shadowed apple trees, her heart hammering in her ears. Behind her, the drums of Beltaine continued pounding, oblivious to her plight.
She had not run far when a man’s hand clamped around her arm and pulled her up short. Cynewyn turned on him, fighting like a cat, but he was much stronger than her.
Tolan laughed at her defiance, his eyes gleaming in the glow from the fires. Her resistance only seemed to excite him. “Feisty wench,” he gasped, out of breath from the chase. “Like to play games, don’t you?”
He threw her to the ground and climbed on top of her, pushing up her skirts.
“Get off me!” Cynewyn screamed. On a quiet night, her voice would have carried, but this eve, with the drums and the roar of revelry, her scream was lost.
“Quiet now,” he grinned down at her, reaching to unfasten his breeches. “You’ll enjoy this, almost as much as I will.”
A moment later, Tolan gave a strangled cry and fell backward. Another man’s silhouette appeared, outlined in the glow of the fires farther up the hill. The newcomer had pulled Tolan off her by his hair. Cynewyn struggled backward along the dew-laden ground and pushed her skirts down. Meanwhile, th
e stable hand staggered to his feet, fists raised. His assailant stepped forward to meet him, the man’s face suddenly illuminated by the fires.
Cynewyn gasped.
It was Wil. His face was hard; she had never seen him so angry. He looked ready to kill the man before him. Tolan swung for his opponent, and Wil blocked the punch easily, before slamming Tolan in the jaw with his right fist.
Tolan slumped to the ground like a sack of barley. Wil stood over him, waiting for Tolan to rise, but he did not.
Cynewyn inched forward. “Is he dead?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Wil knelt down and felt for a pulse before shaking his head. “Just knocked out – shouldn’t wake for a while though.”
Wil got to his feet and for a moment, the pair of them just stared at each other. The Beltaine firelight flickering across their skin.
“I didn’t want to go with him,” Cynewyn said.
“I know,” Wil replied, his face still hard and shuttered, not giving his thoughts away.
“Thank you, Wil,” Cynewyn took another step toward him. “He would have raped me.” Suddenly, she was breathless and tongue-tied. There was so much she wanted to say to him, but now they had a precious moment together, the words would not come.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
Cynewyn shook her head. Their gazes fused, and she saw the hurt and longing in his eyes.
“Cynewyn,” he said her name, and the sound of it was so intimate that she felt her face grow hot. It reminded her of that night they had spent together, alone in the woods with only the trees and starlight for company. “I know I am not an ealdorman,” he continued, his voice steady. “I’m not of noble blood and have no hall or servants to offer you, but I would treat you like a queen. I love you, and will love you till I die. Is that not enough for you? Or would you prefer to marry a man you’ve never met, only because he is of noble birth and I am not.”
Tears streamed down Cynewyn’s cheeks at these words.
“Wil,” she murmured, her voice trembling with the effort she was making not to break down and sob. “I am sorry for everything I said; for everything I made you think. I was foolish and vain. I thought the king would grant me the freedom to run my own hall – that I would be free of having to do a man’s bidding. I ignored what I felt for you. I’m so sorry I hurt you.”
Wil stepped forward so that were standing only inches apart. She could smell the warm, male musk of his skin; a scent that made her pulse quicken in memory. Gods, how she had missed him – his smell, his voice, and the feel of his gaze upon her.
“So my rank matters not to you?” he asked.
Cynewyn heard the hope in his voice and felt something inside her break. She buried her head in her hands as sobs wracked her.
“No,” she finally managed through her tears. “Although, I understand if you hate me for what I’ve done.”
He pulled her into his arms then. She could hear his heart racing against hers. “I could never hate you,” he murmured into her hair. “‘Tis I who should ask forgiveness. I took you roughly that morning in the woods. I should never have done that. I’m sorry.”
Cynewyn raised her head and pressed her mouth fiercely against his. “I love you,” she whispered against his lips.
They stood together, entwined in the darkness, while the revelry continued behind them. For a while, neither spoke, as they savored the truth that had passed between them; a rare and fragile moment that neither wanted to shatter.
Eventually, Cynewyn pulled back, her breathing steady after the solace of his embrace. She met his gaze and saw the naked vulnerability there. The mask was gone. The man who loved her stared back at her.
“Take me away from here,” she whispered. “Let’s go now, and never come back.”
Wil’s eyes widened in shock. “You would leave here?” he asked. “Leave everything behind?”
Cynewyn nodded. “If it means we can be together – yes.”
Wil stared at her for a moment longer, before a smile crept across his face. “There will be no going back,” he told her. “You’ll be stuck with me. Are you ready for that?”
Cynewyn smiled back and, reaching out, took his hand in hers.
“I’m ready,” she replied.
They turned away from the fires of Beltaine and stepped over Tolan’s prone body. Hand in hand, the lovers walked down the hill, and through the apple orchard. Moments later, the night shadows swallowed them.
Epilogue
Merwenna
Nine months later…
Wilfrid of Went stood before the closed door to the low wattle and daub dwelling, and resisted the urge to barge his way inside.
The mid-wife, a local woman named Cille, was good-hearted but bossy to the extreme. He had wanted to stay by his wife’s side – keep hold of her hand during the ordeal – but once the birth drew out, Cille had ordered him outside.
It’s like I’m a dog she doesn’t want under her feet. Wil ground his jaw and started pacing, back and forth, across the threshold. If she does not call me soon, I will break that door down.
Around him, the late winter chill made its presence felt. Even though he wore a thick fur cloak about his shoulders and fur-lined boots, Wil’s limbs felt numb with cold. His breath steamed in front of him. It was an achingly damp day, here on the outskirts of Gipeswic, near the banks of the River Orwell. The remnants of a snow-fall, one that had kept them house-bound for days, was now but all gone; there were just a few patches remaining. The sky above was pale, and there was no sign of the sun.
Wil blew on his aching fingers and glanced around at the collection of thatched cottages that surrounded them. Gipeswic had provided a good home for them during Cynewyn’s pregnancy; he had managed to find enough work to feed and clothe them, although they would soon need to move on from here – possibly to Mercia, where Wil would seek to find an ealdormen to serve.
There was no going back to Rendlaesham, both Wil and Cynewyn had been clear about that. Neither of them disliked Rendlaesham, or King Raedwald, who had treated them both well. However, it would have been awkward to return there and explain themselves, after running away during Beltaine. Raedwald might have been angered that they had gone behind his back. Their future lay somewhere else.
The wail of a babe, split the freezing air, causing Wil to halt mid-stride.
Had he imagined it?
As if in answer, another lusty wail erupted from the dwelling. Wil’s face split into a wide smile. Not waiting for Cille to fetch him, he threw open the door to his home and strode inside.
The cottage that he and Cynewyn shared was small and simple. It was no king or ealdorman’s hall, although neither of them cared. Cynewyn had made this small cottage a real home. Sweet-smelling rush-matting covered the dirt floor and rabbit pelts covered the walls, keeping the cold out. A hearth glowed in the center of the space, illuminating the pale, exhausted face of a woman who lay upon a pile of furs.
“Wil!” Cynewyn greeted him with a tired smile. “You have a daughter.”
Wil felt joy wash over him at this news. He stood there next to the fire pit, grinning like a fool at his wife. “A daughter.”
Cille had just finished swaddling the babe in a fur, and Wil caught a glimpse of a red, angry little face, before the mid-wife passed the child to Cynewyn.
“She’s a feisty little thing,” Cille winked at Wil. “You’ll soon have to deal with yet another strong-willed female!”
Wil laughed at that, and approached his wife, kneeling next to her. “I would not expect Cynewyn’s daughter to be anything but a force to be reckoned with.”
“I will accept that as a compliment,” Cynewyn replied archly. Her gaze met Wil’s then; he saw the exhaustion on her face, and the joy in her gaze. After two still-births, Cynewyn had been terrified that she would not bear a living child. Yet, right from the beginning this pregnancy had been different to the others. The growing babe had been active in her womb – and she had dared hope that it
would be healthy.
“Is she well?” he asked.
Cynewyn nodded. They both looked down at the crumpled little face and the down-covered skull of the infant, and Wil was overcome by the urge to cry. He reached out and stroked the baby’s cheek. “She’s so tiny,” he murmured. “What will you name her?”
“Do you like ‘Merwenna’?” she asked, her face hopeful. “It was the name of my little sister, who died during her fourth winter. I would like to name our daughter after her.”
“Merwenna,” Wil said the name aloud before smiling. “I like it – a strong name.”
“Then, Merwenna it is,” Cynewyn’s smiled widened. “I’m so relieved that she’s healthy.”
Wil reached out and stroked her cheek. “You did well, love.”
Cynewyn gazed back at him and Wil felt the same pull her presence always provoked in him. Even after nearly a year together, he still felt a jolt of excitement when their gazes locked. Her presence injected the world with color and even took the sting out of winter’s chill.
“I hope to give you more children,” she told him, her smile fading and her gaze intensifying, “and a son.”
Wil gazed back at her, aware that many women worried that their husbands preferred sons to daughters. He was not one of those men.
“If we have more children, so be it,” he told her with a shake of his head, “but I am content with what I have – you, and Merwenna, are enough to fill my life with joy.”
He saw her eyes fill with tears and knew that his words had touched her. She knew he did not say such things lightly; he had meant every word. Leaning forward, Wil kissed Cynewyn gently on the lips. He had known enough loneliness, desolation and disappointment in his life to appreciate happiness once he had found it. He would never take any of this for granted.
Neither of them would.
About the Author
Love is at the core of all Jayne Castel's stories. She writes historical romance set in 7th Century Anglo-Saxon England and contemporary romance set in Italy.