Paths of Exile

by Carla Nayland

  Time crawled by. He crouched in the gloom, soaked and shivering, his cramped muscles screaming for relief. The wound on his arm throbbed as the feeling came back and the blood began to flow again. He groped for a handful of cobwebs and bound them in place with the thong from his hair, not much caring whether it did any good or not. Humiliation hurt far worse. Look at what he was reduced to, hiding like a worm in his own city. No wonder Aethelind had abandoned him for a better man. She hadn’t wasted any time either, had she? He thought of Severa waiting four years for her husband. How long had Aethelind waited for him? Four days? Four hours? Nor had she gone to this other man through force or necessity. She preferred him. And that hurt worst of all. What she had shown with brutal clarity was that she had never cared for him in the way he had believed. He had been at best convenient, at worst – oh, horrible thought! – a necessary evil, the price of a home and a household. Everything else had been merely a figment of a besotted youth’s imagination. He had made an utter fool of himself, from clumsy beginning to ignominious end. And no woman, obviously, would want a fool.

  He closed his eyes on that bleak thought and gave himself up to bitter reflections on folly and betrayal.

  Night took a long time to come. Huddled with his misery in the hollow tree, Eadwine was aware chiefly that the chill intensified and the dim light filtering down through the opening faded. It was a great temptation to ignore it, to stay here and hide his shame for ever, or to slip back to the river and let it roll his corpse down to the sea. But, shamed or not, failure or not, he had still a duty to avenge his brother’s murder. Eadric would scorn him if he failed, and he had never been able to bear Eadric’s scorn.

  It was some time before he summoned up enough will to move, and some time longer before his cramped limbs had regained enough life to obey him. Crawling out of the hollow and climbing round the trunk to drop quietly to the ground on the landward side of the tree was an intricate and difficult business. He paused for a moment when he was down, placed both hands on the gnarled trunk and said a silent prayer of thanks to the guardian spirit of the tree. Then he dropped to hands and knees and wormed a cautious way through the bushes.

  His instinct had been right. Not all the searchers had gone home at dusk, not by any means. It was a cold, clear night with a brilliant full moon. Quite a pleasant night to be out in search of valuable prey. One glance told him he had no chance of crossing the wall tonight, for he would be seen as soon as he gained the rampart and pursuers would close in long before he had climbed down the far side. It might be possible to wait for high tide and then swim round the end of the wall under the bushes. Another soaking would make little difference, as his clothes were still wet from the first one. He could probably swim that distance even encumbered with sword and cloak and pack. Probably. Or he could wait until tomorrow night in the hope of cloudy weather that would obscure the moon. What wind there was had veered westerly, and that usually meant rain. Usually. Either way, the first task was to creep under cover of ditches and fences and shadows back to the courtyard to retrieve his gear. He was not going to crawl back to his friends weaponless, like a beggar – there was enough of his lacerated pride left to rebel against that. And if he was fated to die, better with a sword in his hand.

  Rhonwen knelt by the fire and fed another fragment of wood into the flames, paying no attention at all to the task in hand. She had heard the commotion in the city and a few nervous searchers had even ventured into the ruins, though none had come into the courtyard. Now she huddled by the fire, watching the doorway and praying as she had never prayed in her life.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace,” she muttered. “Hail Mary.... Blessed be thy name.... Blessed art thou among women.... Oh, Blessed Lady Mary, do not let him be taken. Do not let him lose his life because of a silly girl. Hail Mary, full of grace...”

  One moment the doorway was empty, in the next a tall thin figure was leaning against the frame. Rhonwen jumped to her feet.

  “You’re alive! Oh, you’re alive!”

  Eadwine did not move or respond as she ran to him. His face was in shadow, half-hidden by tangled hair, and she felt a sudden surge of hope that perhaps he had never got as far as Eoforwic, perhaps he did not know. His sleeve was cold and clammy under her touch, his hands chill as ice.

  “Come to the fire,” she pleaded. “How did you escape them?”

  “Crawling and hiding. I’m good at that.”

  The flat misery in his tone was unmistakable. He knew, and it hurt.

  “Come to the fire,” Rhonwen insisted again. “There’s blood on your sleeve. Are you hurt?”

  He flinched away, like a dog from a strange hand. “A scratch.”

  “Let me see.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Please. I would be happier if I could see for myself.”

  That worked, as she had known it would. He pushed the torn sleeve up above his shoulder and sat passively while she cleaned the dirt out of the gash and bandaged it with the cloth the cheese had been wrapped in. Rhonwen surreptitiously studied his face in the firelight. He looked hurt and bewildered and very young. Very like the shy fifteen-year-old she had first indulged, thinking it would be a shame if all that eager innocence was spoiled by some hard-faced tart on the waterfront. Well, that shallow little blonde had spoiled it now all right.

  He glanced up with one of his quick movements and caught her looking at him. Her pity for him must have shown in her face – it could hardly fail to – and he had always hated being pitied. He pulled away, shoulders hunched and arms locked around his knees.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Rhonwen lowered her eyes. “I’m a coward,” she admitted. “I didn’t want to be the one to hurt you.”

  “So you let – you let her do it instead.”

  His voice was bitter, accusing. Rhonwen glared at him.

  “You wouldn’t have believed me!” she shot back.

  He turned his face away. When he spoke, all the anger had gone from his tone and his voice was muffled. “No. No, you’re right. I wouldn’t have believed – I’m sorry, Rhona –”

  She drew closer and tried to put her arms round him. How often they had sat together in love and laughter, in that summer long ago. But the roses now were faded and the stones were cold.

  “I wish them well,” he said, after a while. “At least, I think I do. I always wanted her to be happy. But – I thought – I thought it would be with me –”

  Rhonwen drew his head down to her shoulder, stroking his hair. There had always been a strong motherly component in her affection, more so since she had, very gently and firmly, ended their affair – only to see him fall headlong for a girl who was even less suited to him. Perhaps he would realise that now. Perhaps he had realised it already, for he seemed more shocked and humiliated than broken-hearted. She smiled softly, and placed a gentle kiss on the crown of his head. Blessed Lady Mary, she said silently, send him another woman, and get it right this time. And in the meantime, she thought, a little reassurance would not go amiss.

  “Eadwine,” she said softly. “My dear.”

  He raised his head from her shoulder and she looked into his eyes. He was probably blaming himself, trying to figure out what he had done wrong. Any minute now he would make some excuse to go off by himself, and she was certain he should not be allowed to do that, not tonight.

  “You’re kind, Rhona,” he said gently. “Thank you. It is time I was going –”

  She took his hand. “Don’t go. Not yet. Stay here with me.”

  He smiled, a little sadly, and her pulse jumped. His face was cleaner-cut and stronger now, his figure still slender but with the suggestion of well-proportioned muscles under his clothes. No longer a bony adolescent but a young man. Reassurance? Her feelings for him were not entirely maternal after all. Nor was he the only one in need of comfort.

  “It’s so lonely here –” she whispered, and her voice and hands were trembling.

  “Yes,”
he agreed softly, and folded her hand in both of his. “Are you sure, Rhona? You said never again.”

  She smiled shakily. “Never is a long word. Stay, my dear. For old times’ sake.”

  Eadwine woke many hours after dawn. The fire had been tended, he was snugly covered with his cloak, the water bottle and the remains of the food were set out within easy reach, and Rhonwen was kneeling in the doorway using the murky half-light of a wet winter day to sew the sleeve of his tunic back into the armhole.

  “I ought to get nearly killed more often,” he said drowsily. “Mending done. Breakfast in bed.”

  Rhonwen looked up, and her smile had regained some of its old sparkle. “I was wondering if you were going to sleep all day. How do you feel?”

  He stretched, tentatively. The wound on his arm hurt, but not enough to be alarming, and all his limbs worked. “In one piece, which is more than I deserve. Is the weather as good as it looks?”

  “It’s vile. Rain then sleet, and it hasn’t got properly light all day.”

  “Excellent!”

  “What?”

  “That means a dark night. I should be able to get over the wall without being seen.”

  She bit off the end of the thread and came to sit beside him, her face anxious. “You’re going already? But it’s not safe!”

  He laughed, but there was a hard undertone to it. “It never will be, Rhona. Not for me, not any more. What would you have me do, live in fear of my own shadow? I’ve got a fair chance. Two days with no luck in the city, they’ll mostly be looking downriver for a body by now, and if the Three Ladies are feeling helpful they might even find one. There are generally a few to choose from. And on a dark wet night all sensible people stay indoors.” His fingers smoothed the frown from her forehead. “They won’t catch me.”

  “They nearly did yesterday!”

  “True,” he agreed, ruefully. “But that was my own fault. I’m sure I must have done stupider things in my time, but I can’t think of any.”

  “I think it was very brave.”

  “Stupid,” he repeated, “but lucky. In more ways than one.” His hand traced the line of her cheek and came to rest on a bruise on her shoulder. Now it was his turn to frown. “Did I do that? I’m sorry, Rhona –”

  She hid a smile, wondering when he would notice the nail marks on his back. “I never felt it,” she said truthfully. “I needed a night like that as much as you did.”

  It was still endearingly easy to make him blush, and she leaned down impulsively to kiss him.

  “You’re cold,” he said, after a while.

  “Freezing,” she agreed.

  He caught the hopeful tone in her voice and offered, “It’s warm under here.”

  She snuggled up without waiting for a second invitation. “Mmm, so it is! The doctor can weave as well as she can sew. Tell me about her.”

  He yelped as her fingers found the puckered scar at his waist. “Keep still, if you want to talk. Remember you have the advantage over me.”

  “Advantage?”

  “You’re dressed.”

  “And you” – with a long, lingering caress – “are not. That’s easily remedied,” and her dress joined his clothes on the floor.

  Later, as she was drifting off into a sated sleep in the warm circle of his arms, she realised drowsily that it was at least the second time that he had avoided telling her anything about the doctor, and she smiled to herself. Perhaps the Blessed Lady Mary was already working on it after all.

  “I mean it, Rhona,” Eadwine said, buckling his sword-belt in the fading dusk. “You can’t stay here. Even if you have learnt how to light a fire.”

  “How long before you can come back for me?”

  “Maybe never,” he said soberly. He reached for his cloak and fastened the brooch on his shoulder. “Anything could go wrong.”

  “But if it doesn’t?”

  He considered. “Well, no-one is going to kill a good horse racing north to tell Aethelferth they let me slip through their fingers. So it will be a while before he hears. But he will hear, and if he’s as keen to get hold of me as he seems, he’ll either send someone south or come himself.” He drummed his fingers on his thigh, thinking. “I’ve probably got half a month. If I’m not back here when the new moon is born, I’m probably not coming. Or not all of me, anyway.”

  Rhonwen shivered. “I wish you wouldn’t joke about it.”

  “Sorry.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But that doesn’t mean it won’t happen. Look, Rhona. You know the monastery in the south of the city?”

  She nodded.

  “If I don’t come back, go there and ask for the abbot. Father Ysgafnell is his name. He knows me. More to the point, he also knows Heledd. I rather think he is her chief spy in Eboracum. And unless Christians really can talk to the birds, which I doubt, that means he sends her messages. So he can send you.”

  “For love of you?” Rhonwen asked, doubtfully.

  Eadwine laughed. “No! But his god has expensive tastes, and you said Heledd gave you jewellery. You can’t buy bread with gold, but you may be able to buy a priestly escort to Heledd’s hall. What did she leave you? May I see?”

  She pattered across to the far corner, where a hole in the floor gave access to the underfloor cavity, and came back with a cloth bag.

  “Is it enough?” she asked anxiously.

  Eadwine shook the shining tangle into his hand. “Oh, very nice.” He turned the pieces over. A woman’s silver bangle, a string of polished jet beads, a small gold finger-ring set with a red stone, and a man’s large heavy gold brooch. “This should be more than enough –”

  He broke off, staring at the brooch as though it had bitten him. A double-headed snake, body writhing in fantastic contortions, mouths open, malevolent fangs bared. The symbol of the Bernician royal house. The badge of Aethelferth. The badge of a traitor. Rhonwen? But no, Rhona was living in terror of Aethelferth, she could not be in his pay. Heledd? But Heledd had difficulty walking more than a few hundred yards and hardly left her apartments. She could not have crossed the city in the middle of the night to open a gate, even if the guards would have obeyed her. A terrible dread began to gnaw at him.

  “Where did you get this brooch?”

  His voice sounded strained even to his own ears. Rhonwen’s face was out of focus, and her voice seemed to come from a great distance as she answered.

  “It was on Lord Eadric’s body, the day he died. We found it as we were laying him out. Neither Lady Heledd nor I had ever seen it before. Ugly thing, isn’t it? Sinister.....”

  The picture glittered into place, like the moment when the water in a pool stills and the reflection looks back whole and unbroken, perfect in every detail. Not Beortred. Eadric. Embittered by waiting, afraid of being supplanted by a younger rival, eaten up with anger, desiring above all else to be king. An easy target for Aethelferth the Twister to manipulate. First contact made through Acha no doubt, believing she was fulfilling the traditional queenly role of peaceweaver between two warring kingdoms. Discussion. Negotiation. All very amicable and reasonable. And under it all one of Aethelferth’s notorious plots, twisting like the serpent, feeding Eadric’s discontent until it flared up into hatred and treachery. What did he promise you, Eadric? Cynewulf’s death or banishment? And then to make you King of Deira, in honourable alliance with Bernicia? A partnership of two kings, brothers by marriage and brothers in deed. And for that you agreed to betray Eboracum to him. So you set off not to chase down a mounted warband on foot, but to meet Aethelferth or one of his captains at the ivy-covered oak, probably to agree which gate you would open. To make it look like a skirmish you stood by while the Bernicians slaughtered your men – no, worse than that. Your spear and sword were covered in blood. You killed them yourself. Oh, Eadric, Eadric, how could you sink so low? No deed is more shameful. You cut a few superficial wounds, accepted Aethelferth’s token so that his men would recognise you as one of their own when they broke into the city. And then Beor
tred came blundering in, poor, simple, honest Beortred hurrying to protect his lord. He saw you speaking with the enemy. He saw you slaughter your own men – his comrades – as they lay wounded on the ground, and in his anger he struck you down with the only weapon he had to hand. Honest, loyal Beortred, killer of his own lord. No wonder he was distraught. But he could not say what he had done, because he would have had to say why, and if he could no longer defend your life he could still defend your honour. So he kept quiet, he doubled the guard on the gate, and he attached himself to your nearest adult male relative. Me. Until he thought I knew he had killed you. Poor Beortred, who was never a good liar but who could not tell the truth because it would shame his lord. So he ran away still burdened with his terrible secret, no doubt hoping to start a new life with a new lord far away, and met a slaver instead.

  Yes, now I understand. But, Eadric, what were your plans for our father and for me? Did Aethelferth promise you our lives? You surely could not have believed he would keep such a bargain. Did you not care? Or did you sell us too, as part of the price? My brother, my hero, I would have died for you, but that was not the way I had in mind –

  Eadwine clenched his hand over the brooch, welcoming the pain as the edges cut into his palm. A murderer. A traitor. A man without honour. Who deserved his shameful death.

  “My dear?” Rhonwen’s voice was small and terrified. “My dear, what is it? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost!”