by Jayne Castel
Alchflaed tried to nod. She attempted to tell him all was well, but her tongue felt welded to the roof of her mouth.
Suddenly, the world started to wheel around her, and she heard nothing save the roaring of ocean waves in her ears. Her vision started to speckle, and the rain-slicked reins slid from her fingers.
When Alchflaed awoke, she found herself lying on her back upon the wet ground. She blinked and looked up into the concerned faces of Maric, Edgard and Bryni.
“What happened?” she murmured.
“You fainted,” Maric replied, his brow furrowed in concern.
Fainted. She had never once blacked out before. Truthfully, she had always looked upon women who fell into a faint as weak. Her face heating in embarrassment, Alchflaed pushed herself up into a sitting position.
“I don’t remember anything,” she muttered. “I don’t know why I did that. I’m sorry.”
“We’ve been travelling hard, M’lady,” Edgard replied, with a rueful smile. “It’s cold and you’re soaked through.”
Alchflaed looked down to cover her embarrassment.
Maric hunkered down so their gazes were level.
“Are you hurt? We were worried you hit your head when you fell off Briosa.”
Alchflaed shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. Mortification warred with the fresh panic that was now clawing up her throat.
Maric rose to his feet. He then held out his hand to her.
“Come, Alchflaed. “I apologize for pushing you too hard. We’ll take a break here so you can rest.”
Alchflaed reluctantly took the hand he offered. His fingers, warm and strong, closed around hers, and he pulled her gently to her feet.
After a short rest, the company pressed on. They travelled along a rutted track for most of the afternoon, until they joined the Roman road that would bring them south to Tamworth. The road was wide and paved, as many such roads were throughout Britannia. For the first time since Eoforwic, they passed other travelers; merchants mainly, carrying their wares north.
Panic chased Alchflaed south. Her father’s orders rang in her ears as she rode. Now she knew they were only two sleeps from their destination, she felt she could not breathe. Her escort likely thought she was apprehensive of wedding the ruthless Paeda – but it was what she must do to him that concerned her the most.
At dusk, they made camp in the woods, not far from the road. Mercifully, the rain had ceased, but all of the travelers were soaked through. A dense fog closed in on them, sealing the company in a damp, colorless world.
Alchflaed saw to Briosa and retired to her tent as soon as it was ready. She did not join the men for their evening meal and sent Bryni away when he came bearing a wooden bowl of stew. She told him that she had a headache and was not hungry. Indeed, her belly had tied itself in knots. She felt as if she would choke if she tried to force down a mouthful of food.
Inside her damp tent, Alchflaed hung up her sodden fur mantle next to the fire and did her best to get dry. Soon, steam was rising off her cloak and feeling had returned to her numb fingers. She could hear the rumble of men’s voices outside but, fortunately, the Mercians left her in peace.
Darkness fell and Alchflaed fed her fire with damp wood before stretching out, as close as she dared, next to its warmth. However, she could not sleep. The tide she had been keeping back since her departure from Bebbanburg, had been loosed. Try as she might, she could not draw her thoughts away from the task ahead.
Marry him and then kill him.
She was not a murderer. Did her father really think her capable of it?
The night stretched out. Somewhere in the dark, an owl hooted. Alchflaed lay alone, staring up at the darkness, listening to the sound of her breathing, and the gentle pop of embers in the fire pit next to her. When the first glimmer of dawn stained the eastern sky, she still lay awake. Dry-eyed, her head pounding from lack of sleep, she watched pale light filter in from the smoke slit in the roof of her tent.
Marry him and then kill him.
Chapter Seventeen
The Plea
Maric fastened the last of his packs behind the saddle and glanced around the clearing where they had made camp for the night. The remnants of their fires smoldered in the early-morning air, the smoke mingling with the last of the mist. The fog had started to lift sometime in the night, and it promised to be a day of cold, brilliant sunshine.
Maric’s gaze shifted to where Alchflaed was saddling Briosa. The princess was pale, her expression troubled. She had been behaving strangely since Winwaed. Her collapse yesterday worried him. Was she ill? She had barely spoken to him since the night they camped near the River Winwaed. Not just that, but she had withdrawn from the others as well, even Bryni, whom she had brefriended.
Next to Maric, Edgard swung up onto the saddle, a grin plastered on his face.
“Not long now. This time tomorrow, we’ll be on the last stretch home.”
Home.
Tamworth was Maric’s birthplace; he had grown up amongst its winding streets. Many of his kin – although all of them now shunned him – resided in Tamworth. Unlike Edgard, there was no joy in his heart at the thought of returning there.
“You have a wife and children?” Maric asked.
“Aye, three strapping sons,” Edgard replied proudly. “My wife was heavy with child when I left for war. She will have had the babe by now.”
Maric returned Edgard’s smile, pleased for him. He had not known the warrior before embarking upon this journey, but they had become friends during the weeks they had travelled together. Edgard said little; this was the first time he had spoken of the life he had left behind.
“And you?” Edgard asked. “Do you have family awaiting your return?”
Maric shook his head. “There is no one.”
Edgard frowned, clearly intrigued. Still, he did not question him further, and Maric was grateful for that.
Maric mounted his horse and caught Edgard’s gaze. “I would like to meet this brood of yours.”
Edgard grinned back. “And you shall.”
They set off south, once more along the Roman road. It was easy going along the paved way, and the sky was clear. The air was chill, although the sun warmed Alchflaed’s face.
A sleepless night had not improved her state of mind, but she tried her best to focus on the day before her, and no further. Nevertheless, her stomach felt as if a great stone rested inside it. She could not dislodge the dread that now perched upon her shoulder like one of Woden’s ravens, whispering doom in her ear.
It was nearing noon when they reached the tiny hamlet of Burhtun. Little more than a scattered collection of wattle and daub dwellings around a muddy clearing, the village sat on the northern bank of the River Trente. The folk here farmed a wide swath of arable fields of rich river silt. A rickety wooden bridge spanned the Trente; a great river which rose on the southern edge of Biddulph Moor to the west, and fell to the Humber estuary in the east, which in turn emptied out into the North Sea. On the other side of the bridge the Roman way continued, and would carry them south to Tamworth.
The company rode into Burhtun, and paused in the center of the clearing, where there was a great pile of branches, presumably for the Yule bonfire. Alchflaed dismounted and loosened Briosa’s girth, letting the pony drink from a trough. The others did the same, taking a few moments to rest before they continued their journey south.
Alchflaed refilled her skin of water and saw that Maric was talking to a rosy-cheeked woman. He was spending some thrymsas on food for the last day of their journey. The woman brought out rounds of fresh griddle bread, wedges of hard goat’s cheese, apples and freshly boiled eggs, which she placed into a linen sack. It was the best fare Alchflaed had seen since they had left Bebbanburg, but she had no appetite for it.
She looked on as Maric took the sack of provisions and pressed the gold into the woman’s palm. He then nodded toward the pile of branches nearby.
“How long till Mother Night
?”
“It’s tomorrow night,” the woman replied, “and it looks as if the weather will stay mild this year.”
Alchflaed glanced over at the Yule bonfire and felt an odd pang. There would be a stack of oak branches, twice this size, just inside the low gate at Bebbanburg. Every year, she had joined the throng of folk and watched the fire burn. Alchflaed had often stood so close that the flames scorched her face. She remembered the rhyme she had chanted as a child, while she watched the golden flames soar into the night sky.
May the log burn,
May the wheel turn,
May evil spurn,
May the Sun return.
The Winter Solstice had approached swiftly this year; after that the days would gradually lengthen till the first of the spring flowers marked the end of yet another long, dark winter.
“It looks as if you will be a Yule bride, M’lady,” Bryni observed. Unlike the others, he remained astride his horse, as it hurt him to mount and dismount.
Alchflaed forced a smile. “And wear misteltãn in my hair?”
“You will be Our Lady in Darkness,” the young man continued, “and call back the Sun God.”
Alchflaed did not reply. Bryni was attempting to pay her a great compliment, although his words made her feel even worse than before. Contrary to Bryni’s words, she was not a harbinger good fortune.
It was only darkness she carried to Tamworth.
***
“May I have hot water this evening?”
They were the first words that Alchflaed had spoken to Maric all day.
“If I am to appear before my betrothed tomorrow, I will need to bathe first,” she continued, motioning to the travel-stained leggings and tunic she wore.
They had just stopped for the day, next to a stream, a tributary of the River Trente. The light was fading fast, in a blaze of orange and red to the west. It was a chill evening, although the sky was clear, promising another good day of weather for their last day of travel. Around them, the rest of the company was setting up camp for the night.
Maric nodded. “I will have it brought to you, Milady. We have no tub mind, just two iron pots – are they sufficient?”
“Aye,” Alchflaed replied, relief flooding through her at the thought of hot water to bathe with. Although she had tried her best to keep clean on the journey so far, with a damp cloth and cold water in the mornings, her skin itched and she longed to bathe in a great tub, with hot water and lye soap. “They will do nicely. I cannot go before my betrothed reeking of sweat and damp wool, with greasy hair.”
Maric’s mouth quirked. “You do not reek, princess.”
Alchflaed returned his half-smile. “Thank you, but I’m afraid I do.”
Two of Maric’s men brought large pots of steaming water to Alchflaed’s tent and set them next to the fire Bryni had just lit for her. Alchflaed thanked them and dug around in her pack for a clay pot of soft lye soap. She had used most of it on the journey so far, but there was just enough to bathe with tonight.
After the Mercians had departed, Alchflaed made sure the hide flap that covered the tent’s opening was shut, and quickly undressed. Despite the fire, it was cold inside the tent.
Outside, the clear sky warned of a hard frost to come the following morning, and the chill air bit at her naked skin as she knelt before the steaming pots of water. She washed quickly, using a strip of linen on her body before wetting, soaping and rinsing her hair. The smell of lye, a scent she would forever associate with her mother, comforted her a little, calming her jangling nerves and clenched stomach.
While she let her skin dry, Alchflaed retrieved a fresh linen tunic from her pack. She then pulled out a dark green woolen overdress with a gold embroidered trim and hung it up against the side of the tent so that it would air overnight. She would not dress for comfort tomorrow, in leggings with a tunic that she had split down the sides to make it easier to ride. Instead, she would dress as tradition demanded, in all her finery. She had a gold and amber-encrusted belt to wear with the gown, and a gold circle to wear about her throat.
Shivering from the cold, Alchflaed pulled on the linen undertunic over her damp skin. She then pulled on a plain, brown woolen wealca; a long dress with two straps over her shoulders, fastened to her front with two brooches.
Dressed and feeling clean for the first time in many days, she sat by the fire and combed out her wet hair with a wide-toothed comb made out of bone. Outside, she could hear the men moving around and talking, but she paid them no heed. Instead, she absently combed her long hair, lost in thought.
Bryni arrived presently, bearing a wooden plate laden with food. The sight of it, and the smell of freshly boiled eggs, fresh bread and cured meat made Alchflaed’s bile rise. She sent him away with an excuse, as she had the night before. It was unlike Alchflaed to refuse food – she always had a healthy appetite and had never been a picky eater – but the thought of what lay before her closed her stomach completely.
Outside, night fell and the sounds of the Mercians moving around the camp quietened. Alchflaed’s hair had almost dried, and she was about to braid it when a man’s voice sounded outside the tent.
“Lady Alchflaed.”
It was Maric. Her breath hitched and she glanced around the tent, as if seeking somewhere to flee to – but there was nowhere to run.
“May I enter?”
“Yes,” she replied, feigning calm, “come in.”
Maric ducked inside, bearing the wooden plate of food she had sent Bryni away with earlier. Alchflaed’s gaze fell upon the plate and she frowned.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not hungry.”
He ignored her and placed the food down next to the fire.
“You may change your mind later.”
Alchflaed remained seated on the ground, with her bare feet tucked under her. She stared down at her hands, waiting for him to leave.
Yet, he did not. Two heartbeats passed before he broke the silence between them.
“Alchflaed, what is amiss?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly.
“That is a poor lie.”
“I am just weary from travel, that’s all.”
She said nothing else and hoped he would go, but he did not. Instead, Maric stepped closer to her.
“Please look at me, Alchflaed.”
She did as he bid, and immediately regretted it. His face, handsome in daylight, was hauntingly beautiful in the flickering firelight. His eyes were dark and searching. Concern was etched upon on his face.
“Where has the fiery warrior maid gone?”
Alchflaed held his gaze, a wave of hysteria building within her. She yearned to tell him the truth, to reveal her father’s plans, but she knew that would be foolish to the extreme. Maric was a Mercian thegn, bound by duty and honor to his lord. She had seen from the first that he was extremely loyal. She could not burden him with such knowledge, for he would be compelled to tell Paeda. The thought of what would happen if he did so made her shudder.
Panic fluttered up into her throat and Alchflaed reached out to Maric, catching his hands fast in hers.
“You owe me a debt, you said it yourself.”
He gazed down at her, wary. “Yes, I do.”
“Then, I ask something of you. I cannot go to Tamworth. I cannot marry Paeda.”
Maric’s eyes widened. “Hwæt?”
She clutched at him. “Take me away from here, Maric. Far away where no one will ever find us.”
Maric stared at her, bemused. “Why are you saying this? Surely, you don’t…”
“You must trust me,” she interrupted him. “This is something I cannot tell you of… not now.”
His gaze narrowed. “You speak in riddles. I still don’t understand.”
“Please, Maric.”
Tears now streamed down Alchflaed’s face. She had not intended to weep. She hated herself for it but now that she had begun it was as if a dyke had burst. She released him and buried her face in her hands.
&
nbsp; Wordlessly, Maric enfolded her in his arms, and held her close. The act of tenderness caused the last of her resistance to falter and she collapsed against him, sobbing. When Alchflaed had managed to control herself once more she pulled back from him and hurriedly scrubbed away her tears.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I did not mean to weep.”
“There’s no shame in it.” He reached out then, and stroked her tear-streaked cheek. “I do owe you a great debt, one that I will pay. But, I cannot do what you ask.”
Alchflaed stared at him, wretched. After a moment’s pause, Maric continued.
“I am the king’s thegn. I swore an oath to serve Paeda and I must honor it.”
“You will remain loyal to a man who betrayed his own father?”
Maric nodded, his expression grim. “My pledge to Penda and his kin is stronger than you realize. I am bound to them till death takes me… it is my punishment.”
Alchlaed blinked, confused by his words. “Punishment for what?”
Maric sat back on his heels and raked a hand through his dark hair. When he replied, his voice was hollow.
“I murdered my brother.”
Chapter Eighteen
Maric’s Tale
Maric’s words hung in the air. A chill silence settled within the tent after he had spoken, one that not even the crackling fire could warm.
Alchflaed eventually spoke, her voice hushed. “Why?”
Maric did not answer immediately. He took a seat on the fur next to her, folding his long legs so that he sat cross-legged before her. Silence stretched between them, and still Maric did not speak. Instead, he placed a log on the fire, causing the hungry embers to snap and pop as they devoured the wood.
Alchflaed did not press him. After his revelation, she had momentarily forgotten her own troubles. Unspeaking, she sat next to Maric, waiting for him respond. When he did, his voice was low and steady.
“Two years ago, Penda was angry after his words with Oswiu,” he began. He did not meet her gaze, but stared into the fire as he spoke. “He rode hard for Tamworth, and I was glad for it. I had a wife – Gytha – and I was eager to return to her.”