by Jayne Castel
Horrified, Freya glanced up at Ricberht and saw that the king’s gaze was bright with fever. She knew little of men and their needs; her isolated life had protected her from such things, yet she could see the king was not in a fit state. Freya’s hands trembled as she began unlacing the second leg of his breeches. She could not bear the thought of touching him – or of letting him maul her.
I’ll die if he rapes me.
All of a sudden, Ricberht slumped back on the furs and lay there, unmoving.
Freya stopped unlacing his breeches and stood up. The king lay so still that, for a moment, she thought he was dead. Yet, she could see the shallow rise and fall of his chest. A moment later, he began to snore gently.
Freya let out the breath she had been holding.
Thanking the gods, who surely must have been watching over her this evening, Freya stepped back from the furs. She could not leave the bower, for she risked harassment from the king’s men if she did so. Instead, she would have to sleep here. She glanced once more at Ricberht. He was already sleeping deeply and Freya decided that it would be unlikely that he would stir before daybreak. For the moment, she was safer inside the king’s bower.
Freya lay down on the sheepskin at the foot of the furs, as far as possible from the sleeping king, and curled up into a ball. Outside the bower, she could hear muffled conversation from those who had not yet gone to bed. Freya could not sleep. Instead, she waited, staring out at the darkness, until the Great Hall finally quietened.
Now that she had a moment of privacy, the tears would not come. Instead of grief, Freya felt hollow and chilled. She had won but a short reprieve tonight. Upon the dawn, she would not be able to escape Ricberht’s attentions.
What if I kill him in his sleep? She thought. I could smother him with this sheepskin. I’m strong enough and he is weakened…
Freya did not entertain such thoughts for long. Once the king’s men discovered Ricberht was dead, they would know she was to blame. She shuddered to think what they would do to her.
The night wore on and Freya felt her eyelids begin to droop. After a night and day without sleep, she could not hold back the tide of fatigue any longer. Eventually, Freya fell into a fitful, restless slumber, filled with dark dreams.
***
Shouts tore Freya from her sleep. Disoriented and, forgetting for the moment where she was, Freya sat up.
What am I doing here?
Then, the events of the last two days rushed back and Freya froze.
The shouts were coming from inside the Great Hall; from behind the tapestries that shielded the king’s bower from the rest of the space. Shortly after, screams, the clash of iron and thud of shields and axes echoed through the hall. Freya scrambled to her feet.
Woden save me!
Freya went to Ricberht, who still lay sleeping. Oblivious to the chaos inside his hall, the king’s slumber was deep. Freya shook him.
“M’lord!”
Ricberht groaned and pushed her away.
“Leave me be,” he slurred. “Let me sleep!”
“M’lord please!” Freya’s voice was shrill with panic. “The Great Hall is under attack. Your men are dying. Sire!”
Her words finally reached Ricberht. He struggled into a sitting position. The single candle that burnt in the corner of the bower highlighted the gaunt angles of his face and the fury in his dark eyes.
“Pass me my sword!” he growled at Freya. “It’s over there. Now slut!”
Spying the weapon leaning up against the wall near the window, Freya hurried to obey. The iron sword was heavy in her grasp and her hands were shaking when she handed it to Ricberht.
The king had managed to struggle to his feet, although the effort had caused sweat to bead on his forehead. He snatched the sword from Freya and drew the blade from its leather scabbard in one practiced movement. Then, ignoring his slave, he limped across the bower. Shoving the tapestry aside, Ricberht joined the fray.
Freya had just one glimpse of the mayhem beyond, before the curtain swung closed.
The interior of the Great Hall was a sea of fighting, writhing men, blood, gore and swinging axes. Some faces gleamed with the glory of battle, while others were ashen with fear.
One glance was all Freya needed.
Shaking, she sank back on the edge of the furs. She was trapped in here, and soon they would come for her. What she needed was a weapon, but it did not appear as if there were any within the king’s bower. Freya frantically searched the furs, hoping to find a knife hidden there, but her search was in vain. The rest of the bower was empty – there was not even a cup or spoon she could use to defend herself.
The din of battle beyond the tapestry had reached its peak. The screams of the dying and the war cries of the living echoed amongst the rafters.
Freya crawled into a corner. With her back up against the wall, she drew her knees up to her chest and waited.
The fighting had died away – moving outside the hall – when the tapestry was ripped aside. Leather-clad men carrying spears, axes and shields burst into the king’s bower. Still held in the thrall of battle – their eyes wild, their faces splattered with blood – the warriors were terrifying.
Freya hunched back against the wall and prayed that the gods would make her invisible.
“Nothing, just the king’s whore.” One of the men spat out a tooth and a gob of blood on the rush-matting.
One of the men grabbed Freya by the arm and hauled her to her feet.
“Aye, and a fair one at that!”
“Let me be!” Freya snarled, outrage suddenly overcoming terror. She kicked the warrior in the shin, twisted free of him and sprinted for the open hall beyond.
Freya had only taken a few steps when she collided with a man who strode up the steps to the bower. It was like hitting an iron wall. Freya bounced off his breast plate and staggered backwards, into the arms of the warriors she had been running from.
“Who’s this?” a deep male voice boomed.
Freya looked up into the face that belonged to the voice and shrank back. It was a cold, hard face; long with austere angles. The man had flint grey eyes and a wintry expression. Instinctively, she knew he was this rabble’s leader.
“Just a slut we found in the king’s bower.” One of the men hauled Freya upright and placed a possessive arm around her waist. “A fine prize she is too!”
Their leader’s face twisted and he stepped up onto the dais. He was tall; towering over the man who held Freya.
“There’ll be no rape here,” he rumbled. “We may have shed a lake of blood to take back Rendlaesham, but I’ll not have my men rape and pillage like northmen!”
The warrior reluctantly let go of Freya and stepped back from her, his face sullen.
“Milord.” Another man climbed the steps behind their leader. “We’ve taken the outer buildings as well and secured the gates. Rendlaesham is ours.”
“Thank you Aidan.” The leader turned to the warrior, his expression softening slightly. “You and your men have done well.”
The warrior stepped up onto the dais.
“Woden!” The man’s gaze swept over Freya, his eyes widening. “What are you doing here?”
Through her fear and shock, Freya realized that she had seen this warrior before. Indeed, it would have been impossible to forget him. The blue eyes, the cleft chin and the wavy black hair – even splattered in blood, carrying a spear and dressed in leather armor, with a deep slash across one cheek, he was handsome.
The churl who had accosted her while she had been out collecting lichen stood before her. He was certainly no merchant.
Chapter Five
“Have the pair of you met?” The tall grey-eyed man frowned.
The man he had named Aidan grinned.
“Yes, three days ago. We met on the shore near Woodbridge Haven.” He paused and met Freya’s gaze, “and I stole a kiss.”
The leader’s gaze narrowed. He gave Aidan a look of stern disapproval before he turn
ed back to Freya.
“What’s your name girl? What are you doing so far from home?”
All eyes turned to Freya. She took a steadying breath and realized that this was her one chance to explain herself.
“My mother is a healer. I accompanied her to Rendlaesham two days ago,” she began. “The king had called her to attend him as he had a wound that would not heal. When my mother told him that he would have to lose his leg, he demanded that I remain here as his theow and attend him. I would not go free unless his wound healed.”
“Did he use you?” The man’s voice was hard, his iron gaze fixed upon Freya.
Feeling her face flame at the bold question, Freya struggled to hold his gaze.
Men are beasts, she thought angrily. How dare he ask me that!
“No, he did not. He was too ill.”
“Then you are still a maid?”
Freya felt humiliation burn down her neck and across her chest. She clenched her fists at her side.
“Yes,” she replied quietly, staring down at the rush-matting.
At that moment she hated them all.
“My Lord Sigeberht. Why all these questions?” Aidan interrupted; the grin had disappeared from his face. “Surely, we should let her go now that Ricberht is dead.”
“All the possessions of Ricberht the Usurper are now mine,” Sigeberht replied coldly. “I will not tolerate having his whore under my roof, but since she’s untouched, the woman can stay. I have need of slaves.”
“But he kept me here against my will,” Freya burst out. She knew it was foolish to speak up to this cold, hard stranger, but with freedom slipping away from her once again, Freya felt a chill needle of fear pierce her breast. “Please let me return home. My mother will be worrying for my safety!”
“You’re staying here as my theow,” Sigeberht replied, his tone brooking no argument. “You are a woman grown. Your mother doesn’t need your assistance – but your king does.”
With that, Sigeberht turned his back on her. He walked back down the steps to the floor of the Great Hall. Bodies littered the wide space, tables and benches were overturned and blood stained the rush-matting dark.
At the foot of the steps lay Ricberht.
Sigeberht stopped before the dead king and rolled him over with his foot. Ricberht’s eyes stared sightlessly up at the rafters. A hand-axe protruded from his chest.
“That was for my brother,” Sigeberht said softly. “May you burn in hell.”
Sigeberht then turned and stalked from the hall, his blood-stained cloak billowing behind him.
***
A bloody sunrise stained the eastern sky. It was as if the gods knew how much blood had flowed that night in Rendlaesham.
Aidan of Connacht wandered across the stable yard, overseeing his men cart dead bodies from the hall and out of the gate. The dead would be burned on a pyre outside the town’s walls at dusk.
War was a nasty business. Now that the fire of battle had left him, Aidan felt hollow and numb. His body ached and the cut across his cheek throbbed. He had not felt it during the battle, but now that the fighting was over, weariness clubbed him across the back of the shoulders. Still, it had been necessary. Blood had to flow if Sigeberht was to claim the throne. Ricberht would never have abdicated without a struggle.
Despite the element of surprise it had been a difficult assault. They had used grappling hooks to scale Rendlaesham’s walls and had lost a few men before they even reached the Great Hall. Fortunately, Ricberht’s garrison was disorderly, drunken and unprepared, for even then it had taken Sigeberht’s men most of the night to subdue them. They had fought like cornered wolves, with the reckless courage of those who knew they were doomed.
Aidan massaged a tender muscle in his shoulder and halted in the middle of the stable yard. He glanced back at the steps leading up to the Great Hall; his gaze taking in the mighty timbered building and its golden thatched roof. He had never seen a building like it. As he admired the Great Hall, a young woman emerged from the doorway, carrying two large wooden pails.
She was a beauty, with milky skin, long limbs and a mane of flame hair. Unfortunately, the girl looked miserable. The woolen shift she wore was stained with blood and grime, as were her hands. Sigeberht had insisted Freya help clean the interior of the hall – and that meant scrubbing down the blood and replacing the rush-matting.
The girl spotted Aidan watching her, and the unhappiness on her face deepened to dislike. Her green eyes narrowed. She marched down the stairs and, ignoring him, made her way to a stone well at the far end of the stable yard. There, she began refilling the buckets.
Aidan watched her go before turning back to his men. He was sorry that the lovely Freya had been involved in this. He had tried to convince Sigeberht to release her, but Sigeberht had been obstinate. What was Ricberht’s was now his, and Aidan would not push it any further.
Aidan walked over to where warriors were struggling to lift corpses into a cart, and moved to help them. There would be a lot of work to get through today – in the aftermath of the battle for Rendlaesham – and much of it unpleasant. Still, it was far better than being on the losing side of battle.
Despite his injuries, Aidan knew there would be no rest until sundown.
Later that day, as the sun sank towards the west, Sigeberht rode out into the streets of Rendlaesham to greet his people. He rode a grey stallion that had belonged to Ricberht, and cut a dramatic figure in dark leather with a heavy black cloak rippling out behind him. He was flanked by Aidan to his left and Lothar to his right. The rest of his men paraded behind him, battle-weary but proud.
Rendlaesham’s townsfolk clustered along the edge of the street: men, women and children, all straining for a glimpse of the man who had taken back the Golden Hall for the Wuffingas.
Sigeberht reached the market square and a great roar went up amongst the crowd. Seeing the joy on their faces, Aidan felt a surge of elation.
This was why Sigeberht had returned to Britannia.
These people had prospered under Raedwald and Eorpwald, but had suffered under the cruel hand of the Usurper. Sigeberht had given them back hope. The remnants of Ricberht’s garrison had either surrendered to Sigeberht or fled.
Finally, Rendlaesham had been washed free of the Usurper’s stain.
***
Freya carried the last roll of filthy rush-matting from the Great Hall. Gingerly, she picked her way down the steps to the stable yard and dumped the rush-matting on a cart, before retracing her way back up the steps. Her feet dragged as she mounted the last steps and re-entered the hall. It had been an exhausting day. Freya’s back and shoulders ached from being bent over for hours, scrubbing. Initially, she had let fury propel her forward, until the rage at her imprisonment eventually left her. Now, her mind was blank, and her senses numb.
Around her neck, she now wore a slave collar; an uncomfortable iron band that chaffed when she sweated. It would be a constant reminder of her enslavement.
The interior of the Great Hall shone from the hard labor of Freya, and the others, who had scrubbed it clean. A fire crackled in the fire pit in the hall’s center, smoke was escaping through a slit in the roof, and servants prepared a celebratory feast: roast boar, griddle bread and a thick onion and carrot stew. Freya inhaled the aroma and felt her stomach growl in response. She had not eaten since the night before and felt light-headed and sick with hunger. She stepped onto the fresh-matting, feeling it crunch under her bare-feet, and went to help the other theow who were setting up the long tables for the feast.
By the time, Sigeberht and his men entered, shortly after dusk, the interior of the Great Hall was unrecognizable from the scenes of carnage at dawn.
Sigeberht looked pleased, although it was difficult to gauge such an expression on a face so severe. Only the lifting of the corners of his mouth and a brusque nod to his servants, told them that he was satisfied with their labor. At least he did not appear a cruel man, Freya noted. He would be difficult to warm
to, but he didn’t make her instincts scream danger, as Ricberht had.
A short while later, warriors took their seats at the long tables. Despite being battered and bruised, they were in high spirits as they filled their cups and fell upon the feast. Sigeberht sat at the head of the table closest to the fire pit.
Freya filled his cup with mead before joining the other servants below the salt; at the farthest end of the hall. She sank down on the hard bench, with a sigh of exhaustion, between two other slaves: Hereric and Hilda. Hereric was an elfin-faced boy with a quick gaze that missed nothing, whereas Hilda was a wiry young woman with fine light brown hair and protruding eyes that gave her a nervous look. Like Freya, both Hereric and Hilda wore iron slave collars about their necks.
Hilda had dished her up a bowl of stew and cut a slab of bread for Freya. Rewarding Hilda with a grateful smile, Freya fell upon her meal, ravenous.
Sigeberht waited until his men had taken the edge off their hunger, before he stood up and raised his cup.
The rumble of conversation died away as Sigeberht’s warriors waited for their leader to speak.
Freya saw the fierce loyalty on their faces.
“My warriors!” Sigeberht called out, silencing the last few men who had not ceased their chatter. “Today was a day of victory! My thanks go to every last one of you, and to those who fell so that we may take Rendlaesham!”
Sigeberht’s words brought a roar of approval from his warriors. Their voices echoed up amongst the rafters and they slammed their cups on the table tops as they cheered.
“Sigeberht the Righteous! Sigeberht the Righteous!”
When the din had died down, Sigeberht continued.
“Much blood was lost so that we could take Rendlaesham – blood that we must make penance for.”
Sigeberht’s words caused a tremor of uneasiness among his men, but heedless, their leader pressed on.