Paths of Exile

by Carla Nayland

  “How?” Lilla wanted to know. “I can’t track him any further.”

  “Princess Heledd feared that whoever assassinated Eadric would try to kill Hereric too. If she is right, and if Beortred was the murderer – or if he knows who is – then eventually he will make for Loidis.”

  Ashhere’s brow furrowed. “Is that where you were sending them? Well, if I didn’t know, how would he know?”

  “He wouldn’t. Rhonwen is the only person in Eboracum who knew their destination, except Heledd and me. But it wouldn’t be hard for someone of average intelligence to guess.”

  Drust sniggered. Eadwine ignored him. “Heledd is a Princess of Elmet. Where else could she go? Besides, Ceretic will hardly keep Hereric’s presence at his court a secret, assuming they reached Loidis safely, of course. The last atheling of Deira could be a useful gaming piece to have on your half of the board. I think we can be fairly confident that Beortred will soon know where they are. Whether he will follow them is another matter. But there’s only one way to find out. Are you willing to come with me?”

  “We’ll follow you to the death,” said Ashhere stoutly.

  “Of course,” Lilla said. “We were going to Elmet with you anyway.”

  “That was before I expected to find a murderer there.”

  “Doesna matter,” growled Drust. “When do we leave?”

  Eadwine flexed his damaged shoulder, grimaced, tested the muscles in his side and grimaced again. “As soon as I’m mended. There’s nothing more to wait for. I know the way there now without having to bother with the Lord of Navio. Which I must say is a relief, because he sounds a nasty piece of work.”

  Drust gave him a look that might have been called admiring. “I said ye’d work out where we are.”

  “Not exactly, but I know how to get to Elmet. The army-path, remember. Severa said it went to this place called Ardotalia and then to her grandfather’s country, and she told me earlier that he came from Caer Luel.”

  They looked at him expectantly, puzzled but trusting.

  “The main road to Caer Luel branches off from Dere Street at Catraeth and goes over the Pennines,” he expanded. “But one of Heledd’s wandering skalds told me you can get from Loidis to Caer Luel without going via Catraeth. He didn’t see why he should have to pay tolls to Deira if he wanted to travel from Elmet to Rheged. So there must be another army-path over the Pennines from Loidis, and that must join on to this army-path to Caer Luel that goes through here, probably somewhere near this Ardotalia place, or a bit beyond. If we follow this one north and then take the first branch east that ought to land us in Loidis eventually. We’ll need food for three or four days, I should think. I’ll talk to Severa in the morning.”

  “Leaving?” Severa said, with something that might have been disappointment. “Yes, I know, I know. You were always going to leave at Samhain. I just hadn’t thought – Yes, yes, of course I’ll give you provisions. You can have the smoked fish, for a start. I’ll make you twice-baked bread for travelling, but do make Gwen do her fair share of the grinding and don’t accept her excuses. But why suddenly talk about leaving now? It’s something to do with your dead friend, who isn’t dead after all, isn’t it? But you’ll stay ‘til Samhain? I was relying on you to help us drive the livestock back to the village. You wouldn’t let us down?”

  “Dead?” repeated Aethelferth, surprised. “Are you sure?”

  “Soft Southrons, Lord King,” said the fat guard, sweating. “No grit.”

  Aethelferth swore, and kicked a chair across the room.

  “Throw the corpse in the ditch,” he said briefly. At least he could deny the bastard a decent burial.

  “Already done that, Lord King.”

  “Get out.”

  Once safely out of the hall, the fat guard relaxed a little and mopped his sweating face on his sleeve. He had got away with it. The handsome prisoner was not dead but securely tied up in a peasant hovel not a quarter of a mile from this hall. The fat guard scratched, pleased with himself. He could hardly wait for the night to come again.

  In the sacred grove, Aethelferth stared at the mail shirt, helmet and sword hanging from the oak tree and swore again. Fear griped in his belly. It was three weeks since the battle, and still there was no atheling’s body to go with the armour. Still he had not fulfilled his pledge. Everything he had worked for, everything he was, everything he lived by was dependent on continued success in battle. Dependent on the continued favour of the Terrible One. Was he to lose that because of one wretched youth? Never! If it cost all his life, all his kingdoms, he must keep his promise to the war god. And now the miserable impostor, who knew where Eadwine was, had gone and died and Aethelferth was back to the beginning.

  So start at the beginning. He knew Eadwine had been wounded on the field. They had all seen it. Where, and how badly? He reached out to the mail shirt and turned it over in his hands, noting the broken links and the score marks – and the rent. He poked his hand through it. A gash, three fingers broad, over the left side of the waist. And it was not from some old skirmish, for the broken rings were thickly coated with recent blood. Royal blood?

  “That stubborn bastard didn’t have a hole in him there,” commented the Brittonic captain, drawing the same conclusion.

  “Where did you catch him?”

  “On the Great South Road, past Lindum, four days after the battle.”

  Aethelferth studied his fingers poking through the bloody hole in the mail shirt.

  “A gut wound,” he said. “A man with a gut wound cannot ride far or fast. So Eadwine left the road, to hide and lick his wounds. South of the Aire, for if one crossed they probably all did, but north of where you caught up and probably north of Lindum. But on which side?”

  “East,” said the Brittonic captain promptly. “Trying to get to the coast, get a ship –”

  “It’s a long way through Lindsey, and with the Trent to cross, and Caedbaed has all the roads and fords watched. He would have been caught.” Aethelferth frowned. “West. Into the forests, into the hills, where no king rules. Probably making for Elmet, to join the other brat at Ceretic’s court. Yes. Go and find him.”

  Ceretic listened, a sly smile on his face. This was the second envoy in three weeks on the same subject. Whatever the reason for Aethelferth’s concern with Eadwine, it seemed to be bordering on obsession. An obsession that could turn out to be highly profitable for Ceretic. How much could he extract from Aethelferth for Eadwine’s death? The legendary treasure of Eboracum? Another province from Aethelferth’s vast conquered territories? Perhaps the rest of the Pennines, perhaps Craven or part of South Rheged. Oh, yes, Eadwine could be an extremely useful bargaining counter. It was time to join the hunt.

  Chapter 12

  Severa sighed as she dismantled her loom and put it away. The large chequered cloth was finished – complete with matching impromptu border – and there were still three days to go until Samhain. She should have been pleased. But instead it merely reminded her that in three days the four men would leave and she would be alone again in her empty house for the winter. She would miss them. If she was honest with herself, she would miss Steeleye. She would miss his quick mind, that skipped from one idea to another like a squirrel through the treetops, and his courtesy, and his instant comprehension, and – admit it – his long legs and his swift smile and his expressive face and his piercing hawk’s eyes.

  She bit her lip, angry with herself for such a thought. No good could come of it. She had liked Steeleye from the first – despite her sensible suspicion of armed strangers – and compassion had quickly turned into an easy friendship that had filled the dying summer with light and colour and laughter. To allow it to turn into anything else would be folly. A crippled hawk might take temporary refuge in a chicken hut to save its life, but as soon as it could fly again it would be gone, back to its own world of the free sky and the hunt. Steeleye no longer needed a sling, and although it would be some time before his disused muscles recovered the
ir full strength and suppleness, to all intents and purposes he was cured. He rarely stayed on the hafod now, usually joining his friends on the hunting expeditions that had become a regular part of life, and although he never spoke of where he would go or what he would do, she knew he was busy with plans. Plans that did not – could not – include her. All she could be to him was a notch on his belt-buckle, and in a few weeks time he would even have forgotten which one she was. Far better to stay true to her absent husband. Iddon had given her a respected position in a village away from her family, he had valued her for her dowry, her household skills and her breeding potential, and if the tender memories she treasured were largely a product of her imagination, he had at least treated her with due respect. His absence beyond a year gave her the right to declare the marriage ended, but that would reduce her status from headman’s wife to childless widow, and she had no desire to return to her family’s grudging charity. So she steadfastly insisted that Iddon was still alive, and that he would come back some day, and clung to her position as his wife, not his widow. And she was content. Or she had been.

  She folded up the finished cloth and went outside. It was near dusk already, the yard was full of fallen leaves, and the ground under her feet was chill and sullen. Samhain was fast approaching, and all the world was getting ready to die. Lilla and Luned, who were now almost inseparable, were driving the pigs in through the gate, followed by Ashhere and Steeleye carrying hunting spears and a couple of limp ducks. So there would be duck tonight as well as the haunch of venison from the hind Drust had caught a few days previously. It was going to be quite a feast, especially as she had also yielded to the chorus of entreaties and agreed to take a few jugs of mead out of the stored casks. A feast without mead was apt to be as much of a flop as a bird without wings, and the foreigners deserved better than that. Besides, they had done more to earn it than his lordship of Navio, God rot his heathen soul.

  Blodwen shouted from the house doorway for more logs, and after a short exchange Lilla and Luned took the ducks and disappeared into the dairy hand-in-hand – possibly, Severa reflected, the birds would not be very thoroughly plucked – Ashhere took both spears into the hut, and Steeleye started chopping firewood, chanting to himself in the foreign language.

  Severa crossed the yard, feeling oddly nervous.

  “Did you lose a bet?” she enquired, dodging a flying bark chip.

  He laughed, but did not pause in his task. “No, it’s good exercise.” He switched the hatchet to his left hand for a few blows, then back to his right with a grimace. “Damn, I need it. I’d be hard pushed to win an arm-wrestling contest with Luned.”

  “You aren’t doing too badly,” she observed, watching the logs split and fall away from the chopping block. He was clearly stronger than his slim build would suggest, and the thought brought a fleeting image to her mind that she shied away from. She changed the subject. “What were you singing?”

  “A sea-song, a boat-song. It gives the rhythm for the oars, so all the rowers pull together.” He gave her a swift glance and a smile, and Severa felt her heart turn over. “It works for chopping wood too.”

  The sea. Another reminder that he came from a world she could hardly begin to imagine. “You miss the sea, don’t you? You talk of it a lot.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes, you do. Will you go back there?”

  He split the last log and stooped to heap the wood into the basket, his face hidden. “I don’t see how,” he answered, on a sigh. “Too many enemies. But there’s another sea in the west, isn’t there? Your grandfather’s sea. Perhaps I’ll go there. Afterwards.”

  After searching for his lady, Severa thought, and felt a breathtaking stab of jealousy for the woman she knew nothing of beyond a name, the woman who held his heart.

  “You still intend to leave at Samhain?” Silly question. They were all itching to be off, would probably have left a week ago at least if he had not promised her to stay until Samhain. “I – I have a gift for you.”

  She held out the chequered cloth.

  He seemed as astonished as he was pleased. “For me? Really? Are you sure? A whole month’s work – it’s too much –”

  “You need a cloak,” she stammered. “I – I – er I’m afraid it’s not much – nothing special – and I know you must be used to much better weaving – ” Like the woman who made his tunic, she thought, and again she feared the unreasonable jealousy would show on her face. “It’s – it’s the best I can do – I hope you don’t mind –”

  “Mind? It’s perfect. I am forever in your debt. And –” he sank his voice to a conspiratorial whisper “– only I know the secret about the border, which makes it doubly precious.”

  Severa laughed shakily, overcome with a foolish feeling of relief. “It was intended for you all along,” she confessed, blushing for the first time in years. “That’s why I was so annoyed at the mistake. I don’t want you to remember me as an sloppy weaver –”

  She broke off, cringing inwardly. Such a silly thing to say! What had possessed her?

  Steeleye did not laugh at her. When he spoke, his voice had lost its bantering tone and was soft, almost tender. “That is hardly likely.”

  “That you would remember me?”

  “Ah, Severa –” He took her hand in both of his. “I think you can be sure I will remember you.”

  His fingers were stroking the soft skin on the inside of her wrist, over and over. So slight a contact, and yet her pulse leaped and her breath caught in her throat. Was it the same for him too? She could not tell. It was too dark to see his face clearly. But whatever he felt, or did not feel, in three days he would be gone, back to his own world, back to his lady.

  She took her hand back, trying to judge the movement to give neither offence nor encouragement. She had no practice at this – Iddon’s ‘courtship’ had been confined to strictly practical matters.

  “I must get on,” she said, doing her best to sound calm and unruffled, though it was difficult as she seemed to have lost the knack of breathing smoothly. “I’ll be needed to help with dinner.”

  It was a transparent lie, for Blodwen was perfectly capable of roasting a haunch of venison and two ducks, but it gave her an excuse to make an unhurried, unflustered escape – until she spoilt the effect by blundering into the log basket.

  Eadwine knew better than to rush to her assistance, and let her pick herself up and make her way into the house on her own. He had had something of a shock himself. For a few weeks he had been aware that he was attracted to Severa, but he had not acted on the feeling and nor had he had any idea that it was so strong. He had shrugged off the flicker of desire as a natural consequence of returning health, and had even been wryly amused that he should find himself drawn to Severa, when it would have been so much more convenient to have taken a fancy to Gwen or Blodwen. Both of them had started to take an interest in him as he recovered and had made it clear that they would be more than happy to tumble him, if only to complete the set. Neither invitation had been a surprise, or a serious temptation, and both had been adroitly declined with no offence on either side. He had some practice at that, since unless one was physically repulsive being propositioned was an occupational hazard of being rich. Seducing an unmarried woman, whether maid or widow, was an offence against the head of the household, but like most offences it could be settled by paying compensation to the injured party – and as the compensation was expected to reflect the offender’s means, careful choice of paramour meant a pretty daughter or sister or even a slave girl could earn more than the price of a good cow for an hour or so on her back. Eadwine never took advantage of such offers, not if he spotted them in advance. He disliked being fished for. Even if there were no strings attached, on the whole he felt little desire for an agreeable tumble with a pretty woman who would forget him as soon as she pulled her skirt down. It never seemed very – satisfying. Another shameful aspect of his temperament that he had learned to keep hidden while growing up in his br
other’s libidinous shadow and later in the boastful environment of a warband.

  So why did he feel differently about Severa, when he knew he would never see her again? More importantly, what was he going to do about it? He now knew the attraction was mutual. But he was betrothed. He did not owe Aethelind fidelity in any official sense, for under Anglian custom the woman vowed fidelity and the man vowed protection, whether married or betrothed. But he had already betrayed her once by failing to protect her from the Bernicians. Was he to betray her again by falling for the first attractive bit of skirt that came his way? Surely he should keep faith with his betrothed in something, even if it was not the right thing.

  Worse, Severa was married, and on this both customs were in firm agreement, at least in theory. A married woman owed fidelity to her husband. She had the right to end an unhappy marriage, but not to cheat on it. Practice had an unfortunate tendency to diverge from theory, as Eadric’s long list of adulterous conquests confirmed, but it was still profoundly dishonourable to seduce another man’s wife. And yet, Severa’s husband had been gone for nearly four years. No-one, except possibly Severa, thought he was ever coming back. Did she still count as married? Had she kept faith with her husband all that time? Or did she consider herself a free woman, looking for someone to love?

  Severa refilled her cup with extreme care, and passed the mead jug on its unsteady way. The duck and the venison were all finished, the dog had invited itself to the party by stealing the leftovers, and the atmosphere had evolved from relaxed through convivial to hilarious. For Severa and her kind, mead was for special occasions only and the jug had only gone round once before all four women were giggling. Drust had been prevailed upon, without much reluctance, to perform Attacotti Nell – to describe it as a recital really did not do him justice – and although he had offered to translate it into Brittonic it had soon become clear that this was utterly unnecessary. The women shrieked with laughter, the men cheered and clapped, and Blodwen contributed a sixteenth verse that would have been eye-watering if it had made any sense.