Paths of Exile

by Carla Nayland

  Something bumped against his bowed head. Something was in his way. It was too dark to see, but the obstacle was flat and vertical. He blundered along it and came to a corner. A thin line of yellow light outlined a rectangular shape, and the bleating of sheep frightened by the storm mingled with the shrieking wind. Eadwine stared at the yellow line. The small part of his mind that was still functioning screamed that this was important, but he could not remember why. Was he supposed to do something? But he was too exhausted to do anything more. His shoulder gave way again and he fell sideways against the obstacle. A dog barked. Blinding light spilled over him. Hands pulled at him, lifted him. He was faintly conscious of voices, disjointed words that made no sense.

  “– more than half frozen, poor lamb – those icy clothes – how he found his way – the storm – let him sleep –”

  And that seemed like a very good idea.

  Warmth. That was the first sensation he became aware of. He could not remember why that was such a blissful feeling, nor why it seemed so important. There was a vague shadow in his mind, like the ghost of a dream, of a descent into the freezing wastes of Hel, a nightmare journey through an underworld of icy cold and shrieking devils. The second sensation was pain, a dull ache in every muscle, a burning itch from the shallow sword cut on his chest, and a throbbing, blinding headache apparently centred in the right side of his forehead. Wriggling his eyebrows confirmed the presence of an uncomfortably thick, heavy bandage. Eadwine opened his eyes, cautiously, and found he was lying on his left side on something that felt like blanket-covered straw, looking across a fire into the mournful eyes of a hound bitch curled around two very small lambs. This was very puzzling. What was more puzzling was the smooth warmth of a body cuddled against his back. Somebody was in bed with him.

  He rolled over and found himself looking at a big blowsy woman with kind brown eyes and a face that could best be described as wholesome. He blinked. It was not the first time he had woken up with a pounding headache and a strange woman – followed on that earlier occasion by a large father and brother trying to look indignant instead of jubilant as they demanded their compensation – but it was the first time he had had no idea how he had got there or who his companion was.

  He said, uncertainly, “Do I know you?”

  The wholesome face broke into an equally wholesome, if gap-toothed, smile. “Tunhild. Fulla’s wife.” A meaty hand felt for his fingers and a large bare foot slid down his ankle and tickled his toes. “Ah, you’re warm at last! I knew it would work.” She nodded in the approximate direction of the hound bitch on the other side of the fire. “Old Lass there is busy and you’re too long for her, any road. But I reckoned I’d do. I told ‘em you weren’t dead when we heard the bang on the door and the shepherds brought you in out of the snow. I said to ‘em, I said, if he’s crawled all this way he ain’t daft enough to die on the doorstep, you just give him to me. Though I were scared to begin with. Cold as a stone, you were, and not hardly breathing –”

  Snow. Fulla’s cabin. Beortred. Black Dudda. Eadwine rolled out from under the blankets, heedless of Tunhild’s interested gaze. His clothes were spread out by the fire. They were stiff with dirt and salt and blood, and had the unpleasant smell one would expect after not having been off his back for weeks, but they were dry and warm.

  “Awww,” protested Tunhild, “are you going? An’ I was looking forward to staying in bed with a nice young man all day, and my husband not able to say a word about it neither.”

  Eadwine laughed, buckling his belt and kicking his feet into his shoes. He stooped and kissed her on both cheeks as a son might kiss his mother, then dropped to one knee and kissed her hand as if she had been a great lady. “Alas, Mistress Tunhild, much though it grieves me, I cannot stay. You are a pearl among women, and I am forever in your debt. Some day I hope to be able to show my gratitude. But now I must go.”

  He jerked open the cabin door.

  “Behold the King!” a voice yelled, and a cacophony of noise broke out. Ragged cheering, the banging of spear-shafts against shields, a hunting horn, somebody yodelling Drust’s Pictish war-cry, and over it all Treowin’s voice leading a chorus, “Hail the King! Hail the King!”

  Eadwine’s first thought, after the initial shock, was for Tunhild’s modesty, prompting him to slam the door smartly behind him. His second was a profound sense of gratitude that he had got fully dressed before leaving. And the third was a keen sense of the ridiculous at the idea of anyone hailing a scruffy, unwashed, unshaven, uncombed youth as King.

  “Calm down,” he tried to say, reluctant to shout because of his headache. He made a dampening-down gesture with his hands and mercifully the noise began to abate. “Calm down. What’s all this about?”

  It looked like a well-attended folk-moot. There were perhaps a hundred people crowded into the sheepfolds and around the cabin door, men, women and even a few children. He recognised them as people from the coastal villages and the Esk valley, who astonishingly must have thought it worthwhile walking several miles through a foot of lying snow to come here. Some were those who had fought in the skirmish with Black Dudda’s warband yesterday. Fulla was there, jigging up and down with the bedraggled feathers still sticking in his beard, Weasel was happily chewing on a chicken leg, and Ashhere, Lilla and Drust were gathered in a group at one side, bruised and bandaged but not seriously hurt. The snow had stopped and a watery sun stood well into the south. He must have slept all morning.

  Deornoth stepped forward, a bruise on his face and with his left arm in a sling. He crossed his right arm across his chest, right fist to left shoulder, in the formal gesture of fealty, and intoned, “We here, freemen in folk-moot, accept Eadwine son of Aelle as King of Deira. If any man disagree, let him speak now.”

  Silence.

  “Those who agree, speak now.”

  “Aye!” roared the crowd. Fulla, getting carried away, howled Drust’s war-cry again.

  Eadwine could only stare, momentarily speechless. From his earliest memory he had always known Eadric was going to be the King. He had expected to be his brother’s lieutenant, guarding the March for him, or perhaps being appointed as Warden of the more prestigious West or South Marches.

  “I thank you, Deornoth, and all of you,” he said gravely. “You do me great honour. But alas, Deira is not in a position to choose its own King.”

  “You defeated Black Dudda!” Deornoth said eagerly. “You can defeat Aethelferth the Twister! Restore our freedom!”

  “Aye!” cried Treowin. “Throw off the tyrant’s yoke! Restore the rightful King of Deira!”

  Ambition kindled in Eadwine’s heart. On his father’s side he was King of Deira by blood. On his mother’s side his lineage went back even further, back to Coel the Protector whose authority derived from Rome and to Coel’s wife whose foremothers had been queens in Britannia since the dawn of the world when the gods still walked the earth. And what was Aethelferth? A barbarian from beyond the Wall, the descendant of a pirate chief.

  “The right is mine,” Eadwine acknowledged. “But a king is not made by right alone. Aethelferth can field a thousand warriors. That is thirty warbands like Black Dudda’s, and yesterday we were hard put to it to beat even one. He is too strong for me to challenge yet.”

  “No, no!” The enthusiastic voice was Treowin’s. “The rest of Deira will join us! They will rise for their rightful King!”

  Eadwine regarded him with some astonishment, wondering if Treowin really believed that. “Why should they? Most of Deira knows me as my brother’s shadow, if at all. On the Council I was generally in a minority of one. Here on the March I have lived and fought for three years, but away from here I have no military reputation. I have commanded no great armies, fought no major battle.” A mutter of protest from the crowd made him smile. “You may well think I could have done better than those who did, or at least that I could hardly have done worse. And you may very well be right. But the fact remains that Aethelferth has led the armies of Bernici
a for twelve years as their King, and has campaigned from sea to sea across the North. Do not forget that he won the battle at Eboracum, and many will take that as a sign that he has the favour of the gods. And you think they would fight him for an untried youth?”

  Ashhere thought of his brother Fordhere, who had said much the same thing, and knew that Eadwine was right.

  “We fought!” Fulla boasted. “We wouldn’t bow down to the Twister! Yon soft Southrons should follow our lead.”

  Eadwine’s voice was glacial. “Yes, you fought and what it got you was Black Dudda. And you were not fighting for me, were you?” He swung round to include Deornoth and the rest of the crowd in a sweeping glance. “Any of you? You threw out Aethelferth’s lord not because he wasn’t me, but because you thought he was treating you badly. And that is my point. Most people care how they are ruled, not who by. Where Aethelferth has put in lords who are less arrogant – or where the folk are less bloody-minded about their rights than you are here – there will be little appetite for more fighting. People may grumble, especially when they find out, as you already have, that Aethelferth has no respect for Deiran law and custom. But it is one thing to grumble and quite another to shed blood. Most will put up with it and get on with their lives as best they can. So must you, for now.” He drew a breath. “I am leaving today. Leaving the March, leaving Deira.” He held up a hand to still the dismayed ripple in the crowd. “Hear me out! Aethelferth already knows I was seen in Eboracum at the height of the last moon. He will already be on his way south to take me. One of Black Dudda’s men got away yesterday, and no doubt is even now fleeing north. He will most likely meet his master somewhere on Dere Street with the news that I have turned up here with Pictish allies. Tomorrow, or the day after, you can expect to see Aethelferth with a warband, if not an army, marching up the road from Dere Street. If I am still here it will go hard with you. I would not wish that.”

  “You will abandon us?” Deornoth looked and sounded aghast.

  “Not abandon. Never that. Say rather that I go to build greater strength elsewhere.”

  “To Lundencaster!” exulted Treowin. “Aethelbert of Kent will give you support!”

  “And replace Aethelric with me and Aethelferth the Twister with himself,” Eadwine said dryly. “All that will achieve is a change of tyrant. Is that what you want of your King?”

  “No, it bloody isn’t!” declared Fulla and Deornoth in unison, before Treowin could speak.

  “I thought not,” Eadwine said, smiling. “I will do better for you than that. I will win back Deira by the sword, and I will rule as King and not as some foreigner’s pet or puppet. But it will take time. So I ask you to wait. Be patient. The worst will be over now on the March. Black Dudda is dead and even among Aethelferth’s men his savagery is extreme. You are not likely to see his like again. When Aethelferth arrives here, he will be so concerned with hunting me that he will have little thought for anything else. Blame your injuries and Black Dudda’s death on Pictish raiders, tell Aethelferth I left with them, and humbly – yes, humbly, Fulla – ask his protection. Aethelferth does not care for you as a king cares for his own people, but you are of value to him if you do as you are told. You will get a new lord, perhaps a good man, perhaps another arrogant fool, perhaps a drunken sot who never stirs from his hall. Put up with him. Pay your food-rents. Keep your heads down. But keep your spears sharp and bring up your sons to fight when I call. For though I do not know how, or when, this I promise you. I will come again.”

  Chapter 22

  “Where will you go?” Rhonwen wanted to know. She was lying with her head comfortably pillowed on Eadwine’s chest, in the hayloft above Heledd’s barn. This had become their place in the half-month since he and his equally bruised and battered men had brought her here from Eboracum, true to his promise. There was enough of the winter hay left to make a bed, it was warm from the cows in the byre below, and it was far quieter than the main hall.

  Eadwine kissed the top of her head gently. “It’s best you don’t know.”

  She was not surprised at the response, indeed she had not really expected an answer. Although their physical intimacy was as sweet as ever, in other ways he had grown apart from her. He seemed older somehow, harder and fiercer, and there were parts of his heart that were walled off from her. Which she was finding very interesting.

  “Can’t you stay here?”

  “Alas, no,” he said, with mock despair. “Having been ousted from my promising career as a rich widow’s toy-boy, I have to make my own way in the world –”

  Rhonwen rolled over, laughing. “You don’t miss much, do you?”

  “What, is it supposed to be a secret? Heledd has started doing her hair differently and looks ten years younger, Imma gazes at her like a particularly dim-witted sheep, and her tapestry hasn’t made a thread of progress since I was last here. Good luck to her.”

  “She was afraid you would be angry with her.”

  “Heledd is concerned about my good opinion? Whatever for?”

  “Your brother –”

  “Oh. I see.” He sighed. “Have I been such an insufferable prig as that?”

  “Well, not exactly. But she knows how much you loved your brother.”

  “Eadric is dead,” he said flatly. “It’s over.”

  This was one of the walled-off places, but Rhonwen could not resist probing again. “Did you find out who killed him? What happened?”

  “As I told Heledd. Beortred killed my brother, Beortred is dead, there is no threat to Hereric, and it is over.”

  “But –”

  “There is no more to tell, Rhona.”

  She conceded defeat. “When must you leave?”

  “Daybreak. Hereric is expected within the next few days, and I must be gone before he gets here. Hereric couldn’t keep a secret to save his own or anyone else’s life. Neither could Wulfgar or Wulfraed.” He heaved another sigh. “That is the real cost of exile, not the loss of land or title. My heart burns to see Hereric again, and yet I must run from him as from an enemy. I may never see you or Heledd again either.”

  “Will we hear of you?”

  His eyes glinted in the candlelight. “All Britannia will hear of me by the time I’m done. If I am to depose Aethelferth without putting another foreign tyrant in his place I have to build a reputation that will convince others – many others – to follow me. But it must be under another name. For now.” He kissed her again, long and gently. “Enough of me. What about you?”

  “I shall buy myself a husband. I’m near thirty, you know. It’s about time I settled down, and now I have a respectable dowry to set against my not-so-respectable past.”

  “Speaking of which –” He reached across her in the hay for his belt pouch, and dropped something golden and glittering onto the blanket. “Here’s your brooch back.”

  Rhonwen caught the object as it rolled. It was a bangle in twisted gold, a beautiful piece of work.

  “It’s all there,” Eadwine said, a little hesitantly, “except a small amount I let the goldsmith keep for his trouble. You did say the brooch was ugly.”

  “It’s lovely.” She slipped the bangle onto her wrist and embraced him. “Such a kind thought, too, much nicer to have jewellery I can wear –” She stopped. “That brooch told you something terrible, didn’t it? And now it can’t tell anyone else. What was it?”

  “‘Anyone else’ includes you, Rhona.”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “It’s not my secret to tell.” He placed a warning finger across her lips. “So don’t ask.” He lay back, with one arm comfortably propped behind his head. “Have you a purchase in mind? What about that fellow trying to convince Heledd that what a rich widow really needs is a noble widower?”

  Rhonwen wrinkled her nose. “Not my type. His standard-bearer isn’t bad, though.”

  She expected him to chuckle and wish her luck, but instead something very like jealousy flitted across his face. “You aren’t the first wom
an to say that,” he said waspishly, and added, “You’re well in there. He likes dark-haired women.”

  Rhonwen looked at him in some astonishment. “Do you know him?”

  He had regained his composure and his lighthearted manner. “Not to introduce you, if that’s what you were hoping. I know his lord, though. He was Ceretic’s envoy to Eboracum all last winter.”

  “Is that why you’ve been keeping your head down since he arrived?”

  “Yes,” he said wryly. “It gets very tiresome. There are too many people in Elmet who might recognise me, and I can’t hide in barns for ever. So we have to go a long way away.”

  “Ashhere thinks you’re going to Pictland.”

  Eadwine grinned. “Good. So does everyone on the March. We even set off north, before doubling back to Eboracum. Aethelferth can have a happy time trying to work out which of his Pictish allies has given me shelter behind his back. That should keep him busy for a while.”

  “Is Ashhere right? Your friends have got a bet on it.”

  “They always have a bet on something,” he yawned. “I try not to pay attention.”