by Jayne Castel
“I cannot pay it, Milord. I own a house and my sword, nothing else.”
Paeda, who sat upon the high seat next to his wife, frowned.
“Then, we have a problem, don’t we?”
The king glanced across at where Alchfrith of Deira sat to his right.
“You will have to pay the wergild yourself,” Alchfrith told him, “and punish this man as you see fit.”
Paeda’s mouth compressed at this. Even for a king the compensation that Wassa of Eoforwic, the ealdorman’s nephew, demanded was hefty. When he turned back to Maric, Paeda was scowling.
Maric met his gaze squarely, expecting the worst. Wyrd had taken a cruel twist in allowing the king to discover their mishap in Eoforwic. In hindsight, it would have been wiser to tell Paeda what had happened as soon as they arrived in Tamworth. However, with the passing of days, it had ceased to matter. Only now did Maric realized the gravity of his mistake.
“You served my father well, Maric,” Paeda began, measuring each word as he spoke, “or I would have your head cut off without a second thought. He often named you one of his bravest warriors, a bringer of death upon the field of battle. You have also served me well – although I know you made an oath, which bound you to my family forever.”
“I did, Milord,” Maric agreed, dipping his head. He did not need reminding of the oath he had sworn; it was branded upon his soul.
“Give me your sword.”
Maric unbuckled Nightbringer from around his hips. He removed his sword with reluctance. Penda had gifted him Nightbringer when he had just eighteen winters, and he felt naked without it.
Wordlessly, Maric stepped forward and placed the sword, still in its scabbard, across the king’s knees.
“And your arm rings.”
Maric hesitated a moment, before removing the bronze, silver and gold rings, which adorned his arms. Penda had also given him these, after he had shown valor in battle. Not that these rings mattered now.
“Your house, and all the possessions you hold within it, are now mine,” Paeda continued. You are no longer my thegn, but my theow. As punishment, you will wear an iron collar for the next three years, or until I see fit to release you. Every night, you will sleep on the floor of this hall, near the doors, where the draughts are the greatest. You will continue to protect my wife, but for the rest of your duties, you will be a slave in my hall. You will empty privies, shovel dung and fight for scraps with the dogs.”
A terrible hush settled over the hall. Maric stared down at the rushes beneath his feet and felt despair crash over him. Anger swiftly followed on its heels. Paeda had completely stripped him of honor; he had taken away his dignity and freedom.
“Please husband,” Alchflaed spoke up then. “Don’t punish this man for what is my fault!”
Maric looked up, focusing upon the queen for the first time since his sentencing had begun. Tears ran down Alchflaed’s cheeks and the look of anguish on her face made something twist deep within Maric. He suddenly wished he had done as she had asked months earlier, and taken her away to a place her father, and Paeda, would never find her. Coming to live at Tamworth had only brought misery upon her.
Paeda turned to his wife, incredulous that she had the gall to intervene on a king’s matter.
“My word is law here,” he growled. “Let this man’s punishment be a lesson to all that cross me.”
***
Alchfrith and Cyneburh stayed for five nights at Tamworth, before departing for the north on the sixth day. They left on a bright, breezy morning and Alchflaed went outside to watch them go. Standing upon the top step in front of the doors to the Great Hall, she lifted her hand, answering Cyneburh’s wave.
The scent of sun-warmed earth reached Alchflaed, reminding her that Ēostre was just over a month away. Her stomach cramped at the thought. She and Alchfrith had not spoken alone again after that night upon the ramparts, although she saw her father’s command, unspoken, every time their gazes met.
It had been good to see Cyneburh again, but Alchflaed was glad her brother was leaving. He had assured her that her father’s stewards would protect her after she murdered Paeda, but his promise did nothing to ease her fears.
Her brother’s party disappeared beyond the high gate and Alchflaed was about to turn and make her way back inside, when she caught sight of Maric in the stable yard below.
Dressed in a sleeveless tunic and breeches, stripped of his arm rings, he shoveled steaming straw and horse manure into a cart. Around his neck, he now wore an iron collar, which marked him as the king’s theow. Watching him, Alchflaed’s throat constricted.
This is my doing.
She remembered Maric’s anger with her after Eoforwic. He had known then the consequences her temper would bring upon them, but at the time, she had not cared. Now, she bitterly regretted her impulsive behavior.
Fortunately, Maric did not look her way. He worked hard, intent upon his task; although even at this distance, Alchflaed could see the tightly coiled anger in his lean frame. Maric would not wear a slave collar easily; he was too proud to suffer such a life.
Alchflaed went back inside and took her place beside a large loom, where she was weaving a tapestry. As she bent down to pick up her tapestry beater – a wooden comb that she used to push down the woven threads – a sharp twinge in her lower belly made her gasp. She had not been feeling herself all morning, but had put her exhaustion and nausea down to her brother’s departure and her upset at Maric’s punishment.
She took a deep breath and the pain subsided. Shakily, she resumed weaving, moving slowly lest the cramp return. Around her, slaves moved busily about the hall, preparing mutton stew for the noon meal. The king was nowhere to be seen and nor was his brother.
Grateful for a moment of peace, Alchflaed concentrated upon her weaving. The tapestry was large; depicting a hunting scene in a green forest, it would take her a full year to complete. She did not mind the task though, for weaving took her mind off her unhappiness.
The aroma of mutton stew hung heavily in the air when the king and his brother entered the hall. Paeda was scowling, as he often did these days. Watching him, Alchflaed wondered if he ever regretted his choice. Had betraying his father been worth the effort? He had wanted to rule, but his decision to bargain with Oswiu had come at a great cost.
Alchflaed left her loom and crossed to the barrel in the corner of the hall. She helped herself to a ladle of cool water before making her way over to the nearest fire pit. There, she oversaw the final preparations for the mutton stew.
Bringing a large jug of mead and a stack of cups with her, she climbed up on to the high seat and joined her husband, and his brother. Seaxwulf was also there, for the monk often dined with the king. Seaxwulf flashed Alchflaed a warm smile, whereas Aethelred greeted her with a smirk.
“Your champion wears his new collar well. Don’t you think, Lady Alchflaed?”
“Not at all, Aethelred,” she responded tartly, “but if you think a slave collar is decorative, why not don one yourself?”
Aethelred’s smirk faded at that, although Paeda gave a bark of laughter. As always, he enjoyed seeing his younger brother humiliated.
“You have a sharp tongue, Milady,” Aethelred observed, taking the cup of mead she passed him.
Alchflaed did not reply. Instead, she sat down at the king’s side and waited while slaves brought a large tureen of stew to their table, along with wheels of freshly baked griddle bread.
Paeda took a mouthful of stew and glanced sideways at Alchflaed.
“Your brother becomes a thorn in my side,” he growled. “I’m glad to see the back of him.”
Alchflaed glanced to the end of the table where Wada and Alfwald were tucking into their stew.
“You still have my father’s stewards,” she reminded him.
“Aye, but not for long,” Paeda muttered, stabbing the wooden spoon he held into his stew.
Alchflaed’s gaze narrowed. She could see that Seaxwulf was also watchin
g Paeda closely. Her husband seemed to forget that the monk was also Northumbrian.
“If those men come to any harm, your life will be forfeit,” Alchflaed warned him.
Paeda went still. “What did you say, wife?”
Alchflaed took a deep breath, her heart fluttering against her ribs like a caged bird.
“Just that you should proceed carefully… Milord.”
“When I need the advice of a witless woman, I will ask for it,” Paeda growled. “Go up to our bed and wait for me. You have caused me no end of trouble of late. It’s time I put that mouth of yours to a better use.”
Alchflaed stared at him, her cheeks flushing hot with anger and humiliation.
“No.”
Paeda started slightly, as if he could not believe his ears.
“Alchflaed,” Seaxwulf interrupted. The monk’s voice was low and urgent, his eyes wide. “It’s best to obey him.”
Paeda ignored the monk, his gaze fixed upon Alchflaed. “I gave you a command, woman.”
“And I refuse.”
Paeda grabbed Alchflaed by the arm and hauled her to her feet.
“You will do my bidding.”
Alchflaed struggled against him, rage flowering within her. She was tired of his bullying, of the constant humiliation. She struck out at him, but he caught her arm and twisted it behind her back.
Around them, the hall fell silent.
“Upstairs,” Paeda growled, shoving her away from him. “Now.”
A sharp pain, far stronger than the one she had experienced earlier, lanced through Alchflaed’s lower belly. She stumbled and fell to her knees, crying out as agony seized her.
“Bitch!” Paeda seized her by the hair and tried to pull her to her feet. “You have defied me for the last time.”
“Lord Paeda!” Seaxwulf cried out, rising to his feet.
“What?” Paeda snarled.
“Something’s wrong. She’s in pain.”
Alchflaed felt Paeda release her hair. She slumped to the ground, tears of agony welling in her eyes. The cramping in her belly came in waves now.
***
Maric put down the pitchfork and squinted up at the sky. It had been a sweltering day for this early in spring and after a day shoveling filth, he reeked like the muckheap.
There were few men in the stable yard this afternoon, so Maric decided no one would notice his absence. He left the inner palisade and made his way down through Tamworth to the low gate. He passed the mead hall, which was already full of drinking men, and wondered if his friends were there. As a theow, he could no longer join the thegns and ceorls drinking within. His old life was lost to him.
Not that Osulf, Elfhere, Bryni and Edgard had shunned him – they had been furious to learn of Paeda’s punishment. Osulf had roared with rage, shouting that Paeda would pay for dishonoring a warrior who had dedicated his life to serving the Mercian royal family.
For Maric’s part, he could hardly believe it had happened. He felt as if he had strayed into a dark dream, and that he would wake to find Nightbringer at his side and the house he had built still his.
Maric left the town by the low gate and walked to the banks of the River Tame. The river flowed wide, glittering in the late afternoon sun. Maric waded into the water, through the rushes on its bank, and dove fully clothed into the chill water.
The Tame had a lazy flow and the water felt like the finest cloth upon Maric’s heated and dirty skin as he dove and swam like an otter. Then, laying upon his back, Maric floated, letting the slow current carry him downstream a little. The sun was warm on his face and Maric felt his anger, the tension that had driven him all day, slowly flow from him.
The unthinkable had happened. The king had stripped from him the thing Maric had been most proud of – his identity as a king’s warrior. After Gytha left, his duty to Penda had been the only thing that kept him living. Many years earlier, his father had told Maric that his sense of duty to his lord made him blind to all else. At the time, Maric had scoffed, but now he realized the truth of his father’s words. With his identity stripped away, he felt as if he were floating lost on a wild sea.
Maric swam back up river and waded to the bank. There he sat for a while, and let the sun dry his light clothing. The sun was slowly sinking to the west, lighting the sky in orange fire. Finally, his clothing still damp, Maric made his way back inside Tamworth, just as the guards were readying themselves to close the gates for the night.
He walked slowly up through the town, in no hurry to return to the king’s hall. Someone would have surely noticed his absence by now, but Maric did not care if Paeda punished him for it.
Maric was half-way up the hill, when he spotted a familiar face. Osulf was standing on the edge of a narrow lane between two timbered buildings. He was deep in conversation with a tall, rawboned man, who was dressed in a coarsely woven tunic that fell to his ankles. Maric recognized him as the king’s cunning man: Glaedwine.
The two men were so engrossed in discussion that they did not notice Maric right away. However, as he approached them, Glaedwine looked up.
“Good afternoon, Maric,” he mumbled before turning to Osulf and casting him a meaningful look. “I will speak to you later.”
Osulf nodded and slapped Glaedwine on the shoulder. Maric watched the healer disappear down the lane. He then turned to his friend.
“What did the cunning man want?”
“He tells me that Queen Alchflaed has just miscarried. Paeda is incensed.”
Maric felt a chill pass through him at this news. Jealousy, hot and vicious, had stabbed him in the belly when Alchflaed had told him she carried Paeda’s child. Yet, he had not wished her ill. The last thing he wanted was for Paeda to treat her cruelly.
“Is the queen well?”
Osulf gave him a shrewd look, his one eye glinting. “Glaedwine says she’ll heal quickly enough.”
Silence fell between the friends then, before Maric folded his arms across his chest and regarded Osulf coolly.
“I doubt the cunning man rushed here to inform you about the queen. What are you up to?”
Osulf shrugged, his mouth twisting into a smile.
“The wind is changing, Maric,” he replied cryptically.
“Mind sharing your plans with me?”
Osulf’s gaze met his, and Maric sensed his friend’s conflict. He wanted to speak openly with Maric, but something was holding him back.
“It’s better if I don’t involve you,” he eventually replied.
“Why not?” Maric asked, frowning. “Don’t you trust me?”
“With my life,” Osulf replied, slapping him on the back, “but you are too loyal for your own good. I cannot share this with you.”
“Paeda’s stripped me of everything,” Maric reminded him. Osulf’s lack of faith stung. “Do you really think I’m still loyal to that bastard?”
Osulf’s mouth thinned, and he looked torn.
“You’ll see soon enough, Maric,” he promised. “Just know that hatred of Paeda runs deep in Tamworth, far deeper than he realizes. When the time comes, be ready.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Turning Points
Alchflaed was working at her loom when Seaxwulf approached her. It was a wet day outdoors; rain lashed against the walls off the Great Tower and drummed on the roof. Leaks had sprung up, and slaves rushed to put pails down to stop the rushes from getting sodden.
“Morning, Lady Alchflaed,” the monk greeted her. “How are you feeling?”
Alchflaed favored him with a wan smile. “Better, Seaxwulf. Thank you.”
Ever since she had lost the babe, two days earlier, the monk had fussed over her like a broody hen. The child had been tiny, barely formed, but Alchflaed had bled heavily.
Seaxwulf’s behavior was a marked contrast to her husband’s. Paeda had reacted to the disappointment of losing his first child by blaming his wife.
“I thought I was marrying a daughter of kings,” he roared at her. “Not a woman
so weak she cannot even carry my son in her belly.”
His anger had hit the hall in a wintry blast, sending slaves scurrying for cover. Even Aethelred avoided him.
“I have made you a drink of warm milk and honey,” the monk said, handing her a steaming cup. “You still look too pale for my liking.”
Alchflaed accepted the cup and sipped from it.
“I am feeling much stronger,” she assured him.
Mercifully, Paeda had not touched her since she had miscarried. Although, Alchflaed knew that he would soon enough. Paeda had too big an appetite to stay away from his wife for long.
“May I sit with you awhile,” Seaxwulf asked, “with this foul weather, my mood risks turning gloomy.”
Alchflaed nodded, motioning for the monk to take a seat on the stool next to her. She watched him over the rim of her cup. Seaxwulf looked to have at least thirty-five winters, although he had a careworn face that made him appear older.
“Do you not wish to return to Lindisfarena?” she asked finally.
Seaxwulf shook his head. “There is much work to be done here, Milady.”
“Surely, you miss the company of the other monks?”
“I do – but now that Paeda has commissioned a church to be built in Tamworth, men of god will soon find their way here.”
Alchflaed regarded the monk with bemusement. Although baptized, Alchflaed had never understood or been drawn to the god her stepmother so adored. Woden, Thunor, Frea and Hel made more sense to her, and she had often felt her father paid lip service to the god of Rome. The god Seaxwulf served seemed so exacting, intent on filling his followers with guilt.
In Alchflaed’s opinion, life was hard enough as it was without heaping shame and guilt on top of everything else.
As if sensing her thoughts, Seaxwulf frowned.
“Sometimes you remind me of your mother,” he said, although he did not look that pleased about it.
“Did you know her?”
Seaxwulf nodded. “I had just taken my vows when she arrived at Bebbanburg – young and wild.”