by Jayne Castel
“Freya, wait. Let me help you with that.”
Aidan appeared at her side and took one of the handles.
“I thank you,” Freya murmured, embarrassed, “but there’s no need.”
“Are you in pain?” Aidan asked, frowning.
His concern only caused Freya further embarrassment. Despite that she had sworn to Sigeberht that she would tell no one, Freya realized that the truth was likely to remain safe with Aidan.
“No, I’m not in pain,” she replied softly, avoiding his gaze as they continued their way towards Rendlaesham’s market square. “The king did not beat me – but you mustn’t tell anyone.”
“Hwæt!” Aidan stopped in his tracks, causing the small cart to buck and slew sideways. “What?”
Freya met Aidan’s dark blue gaze and saw his confusion.
“He used the cane on the furs instead of on my back, and told me to scream, to feign agony. When he’d finished, he made me swear to tell no one – indeed, I don’t know why I’ve just told you. Please keep this a secret.”
Silence fell between them for a moment. Then, Aidan turned his gaze from her and they continued on their way.
“You mean it was all mummery?” he murmured, incredulous. “Sigeberht had us all fooled.”
“He told me that although he abhors violence, he would have to play the part. His thegns and ealdormen expect such behavior from a king. To not punish me would have been seen as weakness.”
Aidan nodded, his face gradually relaxing. Their gazes met once more and Freya was surprised to see relief there.
“Don’t worry, the king’s secret is safe with me,” he assured her.
They had almost reached the market square. Aidan brought the cart to a halt and stepped aside so that Freya could take hold of both handles.
“Since you have not had the skin flayed from your back, you have no need of my assistance sweet Freya,” he said, winking at her. “I shall leave you to your errand.”
Freya watched, bemused, as Aidan turned and strolled back up the street towards the Great Hall. Watching him go, her gaze traced the breadth of his shoulders and the length of his back, down to his narrow waist and hips. He walked with the stalking, loose-limbed gait of a cat. Her eyes lingered on Aidan until he disappeared at the top of the hill, and when Freya turned back towards the market square, she was irritated to find her heart beating quickly and her cheeks warm.
***
Dusk was settling over Rendlaesham when a cloaked man on horseback rode up the hill towards the Great Hall. The cloaked figure rode a shaggy bag pony; both beast and rider were travel worn and weary. The pony carried its head low and the man sagged in the saddle.
Clip-clopping up the last incline, they reached the guard house outside the Great Hall. Here, two warriors barred the stranger’s path with their spears.
“Who goes there!” one of the men demanded.
The cloaked man pushed back his cowl and fixed the guard with an imperious stare.
“I am here to see your king,” he replied, his words heavily accented. “Tell him that the missionary he sent for has come.”
“What name shall we give him?”
“I am Felix of Burgundy,” the newcomer snapped. “I have not travelled days to bandy words with the likes of you. Take word of my arrival to the king!”
“Felix!”
Sigeberht leaped up from his chair and rushed to greet the travel-stained figure who had just stepped through the threshold.
Aidan watched the reunion, mystified. In all the long years he had known Sigeberht, he had never witnessed him greet anyone with such warmth. He had heard of this monk, Felix, for Sigeberht had often mentioned him in Gaul. Yet, this was the first time he had seen the monk.
The king clasped Felix in a hug and smiled warmly. The newcomer was a slight man no older than thirty winters.
“Felix of Burgundy, I am pleased that it was you they sent to aid me!”
Felix smiled back at Sigeberht. He had a finely sculpted, almost womanish face with large, deep-set eyes, a slightly upturned nose and a neatly pursed mouth. His sandy hair was cut short against his scalp. Around his neck, in contrast to his dusty and stained robes, a golden cross gleamed on his chest.
“I am pleased to be here milord,” Felix replied, his smile becoming somewhat strained, “although I must admit that the journey has wearied me.”
“Come!” Sigeberht ushered Felix towards his table. “Dine with us!”
The assembly of warriors, thegns, ealdormen and their wives, who had been consuming their evening meal of roast marsh hen and pottage before Felix’s arrival, all turned back to their food and conversation now that the moment had passed.
“Aidan, move down so that Felix may take your place,” Sigeberht ordered, before he caught Freya’s attention. “Theow, bring our guest a large trencher and some meat.”
Freya, who had been refilling some of the cups with mead, nodded and hurried over to the fire pit to fetch the food.
Aidan moved down the bench, allowing Felix to take the honored position at Sigeberht’s right hand. He did not mind shifting for the king’s guest, but noticed the pleasure on Ecgric’s face when Sigeberht gave the order. Ecgric sat directly to the king’s left but Sigeberht had not suggested he move.
Aidan ignored Ecgric’s gloating. He had little patience for the jostling for position and power that went on within the Great Hall. Ecgric was not alone in his attempts to ingratiate himself with the king; many others sought his favor. Back in Gaul, Sigeberht had worked hard for the love and respect of his thegns and warriors. These days, these came without Sigeberht making the slightest effort. Aidan and Sigeberht may have had their differences of late but he was sure his lord would not forget his years of loyalty, or the fact that he had travelled northern Gaul in search of men who would join Sigeberht’s cause.
“You’re looking pensive this eve.” Lothar, who was seated to Aidan’s right, pushed a fresh cup of mead towards him. “Is something the matter?”
Aidan shook his head and raised his cup to his friend; some things at least never changed. He knew he could always rely upon Lothar.
“No, it has been a strange past few days that’s all,” he replied. “And we are surrounded by all too many boot-lickers for my liking.”
Chapter Eleven
Beltaine approached and the balmy spring weather turned suddenly chill and grey. Wood smoke wreathed Rendlaesham for days on end. Curtains of rain swept over the town. For once, Freya was glad of her constant activity, which at least kept her warm.
Despite the foul weather, the townsfolk doggedly went about preparations for the yearly fertility festival, in the hope that Bel – god of light, fire and sun – would bring a bit of warmth back into the earth and sky. They collected birch branches and twigs for the bonfire, and fashioned a may pole out of birch. Other folk set to work on the Wicker Man – a giant effigy made from wicker and straw that would burn upon the Beltaine fire.
Within the Great Hall, the king showed little interest in the upcoming festival. Now that Ecgric and Felix resided within the Great Hall, there had been a subtle shift of atmosphere; a formality that had not been there before. Freya could not help but notice that both men exerted a subtle influence on the king.
For her part, she disliked both the newcomers.
Ecgric made her skin crawl; the fact that he had fondled her on their journey from the Great Barrows to Rendlaesham, had made him bold with Freya at any opportunity. She often found Ecgric’s gaze lingering upon her while she worked within the Great Hall and he wasted no chance to surreptitiously rub himself up against her. Felix on the other hand, was a cold, stifling presence within the hall, with his pursed mouth and haughty manner. He was always ordering her and Hilda about, although he shrank from any physical contact with females. Felix avoided the ealdormen’s wives and when Freya’s hand had accidently brushed his while she was passing him a trencher one evening, Felix had screwed his face up and yanked his hand away as if he had
just touched a leper.
The day before Beltaine, the rain clouds cleared and the sun showed its face for the first time in days. The ground steamed in the sudden heat, drying the muddy streets and evaporating the puddles that covered the stable yard in front of the Great Hall.
Townsfolk brought armfuls of bright spring flowers into the Great Hall and festooned the walls with garlands. Felix of Burgundy looked upon this industry with a curled lip. He muttered under his breath about pagan rites being the work of the devil. Fortunately, most of the Great Hall’s inhabitants ignored him, although Sigeberht and Ecgric nodded piously at the monk’s more strident comments. Freya was aware of the widening gulf between Sigeberht and his men. Of late, she had heard a few of them muttering darkly about the unwelcome change in the king’s manner. The king’s close friendship with Felix, and his alliance with Ecgric, had made them suspicious.
Freya saw very little of Aidan in the days leading up to Beltaine. He had been away hunting with a band of warriors, and returned on the morning before Beltaine with two deer and three wild boar; all of which would be spit-roasted for the fertility festival.
Since her bungled escape, life within the king’s hall had become a dreary grind. Now that her one hope had been extinguished, Freya’s future had become a routine of endless servitude to the king.
She feared she would wear her slave collar forever.
On the morning of Beltaine, Freya served the king and his retainers a simple gruel and freshly baked griddle bread to break their fast. Aidan took his seat at the long table, and Freya noted his thunderous expression. In Aidan’s absence, Felix had taken his spot at the king’s right hand and appeared to have no intention of giving it up.
‘Ecgric the Eager’ – as many among the hall had started calling him – wore the expression of a well-fed cat this morning. He fondled Freya’s bottom as she placed a clay bowl of gruel on the table in front of him. Freya jerked away from his touch and glared at him. If she had been a free woman, she would have upended the bowl over his head. Ecgric merely laughed in response, his gaze devouring her as she moved on.
While Freya continued to serve the gruel, Sigeberht turned to Ecgric.
“I heard news yesterday that the Mercians have been bothering our western borders. You come from the west Ecgric. Is it true?”
In response, Ecgric turned and spat on the rush matting.
“It’s true milord. That pagan warmonger who leads them itches to extend the Kingdom of Mercia east.”
Sigeberht frowned at this news and Freya felt a pang of misgiving. Ever since he had taken the throne four years earlier, Penda of Mercia had given the kings of the East Angles plenty of cause to worry. Unlike the king before him, Cearl, who had suffered from ill health for the last years of his reign, the young king appeared hungry for war.
“If this is the case, we will need to strengthen my fyrd,” Sigeberht replied.
“We are already doing so milord,” Aidan spoke up. “I have sent word across your kingdom to call warriors to us.”
“That was many days ago. Where are these warriors?” Ecgric sneered. “I see them not.”
Sigeberht’s frown deepened. “Perhaps we need to increase our efforts.”
“Milord, I think…” Aidan began, only to be cut off, mid-sentence, by Felix. The monk had been listening in on the conversation with interest and was eager to add his opinion.
“I believe we need a man who believes in god’s word, a pious man, to gather a mighty fyrd on your behalf. We need to do more than merely ‘call’ men to join you. A god-fearing man would be better suited to this task.”
Felix’s gaze rested upon Ecgric as he spoke. Ever since the monk’s arrival, Ecgric had taken to praying with Felix every morning. They made unlikely allies, but friends they appeared to be. Ecgric’s devotion would not have gone unnoticed by the king.
Sigeberht listened to Felix before his gaze flicked from Aidan to Ecgric.
Aidan of Connacht’s face was taut with fury. Freya could see the muscle working in his jaw as he sought to restrain himself.
“I am the leader of your fyrd milord,” Aidan ground out finally, ignoring Felix.
“You have been,” Sigeberht replied before lifting the bowl of gruel to his lips and taking a sip. “However, you have been tarnished by the blood we spilt to put me on the throne, and you have made no attempt to help me atone for it.”
“There can be no war without blood,” Aidan replied, his voice barely above a growl. “It was the reckoning you sought! Why should I atone for it?”
“Reckoning we must pay penance for,” Sigeberht answered Aidan swiftly. “Felix speaks true, I require a pious man to gather my fyrd. Ecgric of Exning will command my army from now on. You shall take orders from him.”
“Hwæt!” Aidan exploded.
“My word is law here.” Sigeberht put a hand up to silence him. “If you defy me, you defy the king. The penalty is exile.”
A deathly silence fell at the table then.
Freya, who was about to fill a bowl of gruel, froze and looked across at Aidan’s face.
His skin had drained of color, except for the smudges of red across his cheekbones. His eyes had turned black with the force of his anger. He shoved his bowl of gruel aside, splashing it over Felix, who yelped like a scalded dog, and leaped to his feet.
Then, without a word, he turned and stalked from the Great Hall.
***
Tongues of flame licked the night sky. The Beltaine fire roared and sent sparks shooting up into the darkness.
The townsfolk had cleared a space in the apple orchards for Rendlaesham’s fire and, in the distance, the glow of other Beltaine fires illuminated the night. The strains of the lyre and the rhythmic pounding of drums echoed across the orchard and through Rendlaesham’s empty streets.
From her vantage point, before the doors of the Great Hall, Freya watched the crackling fire. She could see figures, the silhouettes of men and women, dancing around it, laughing and singing. Later, many couples would go ‘green gowning’ – running off into various corners of the orchard and the bushes beyond to make love. It was the eve of life, fertility and joining.
Freya had attended Beltaine celebrations before, but had always rebuffed the advances of boys who tried to drag her off into the bushes. Her mother, rightly so, had warned her that one night of passion would see her shackled to the man in question for life. If she was to go ‘green gowning’ then she needed to choose wisely.
Freya sighed and stretched her aching back. She need not worry these days. As Sigeberht’s theow, she was not permitted to join the celebrations.
Returning inside the hall, Freya knelt next to where Hilda crouched on the rush-matting, mending the king’s clothes. Hilda sat close to the wall, under the glow of a burning torch, so that she did not strain her eyes.
Hilda threw Freya a tired smile. She passed her a tunic that needed mending, along with a bone needle.
“Are the fires bright?” Hilda asked with a wistful smile.
“Yes. The dancing has begun.” Freya felt a stab of sadness for the girl. Hilda appeared so resigned to her fate that there were times when it appeared as if any joy had long drained out of her.
Will that be me soon? Freya thought with a chill. Will this life wear me down to a husk?
“Hilda,” Freya began quietly. “How did you come to be the king’s theow?”
“My father gave me to Ricberht, the day after the Usurper took Rendlaesham,” Hilda replied. “My father was one of Eorpwald’s thegns. He helped Ricberht gain entrance to the Great Hall and gifted me to the new king. In thanks, Ricberht had him murdered. He said that if my father could betray one king so easily, he could betray another.”
Aghast at Hilda’s tale, Freya stared at the girl. Hilda’s eyes shone with unshed tears, a sign at least that this life had not robbed her completely of emotion.
“I cannot believe a father would treat his daughter so. Although I can believe that Ricberht could be so vicious
,” Freya eventually gasped.
Hilda nodded, wiping away a tear that ran down her cheek with the back of her wrist.
“Father knew the king would rape me, but he only cared about finding favor with him.”
Freya shuddered and placed her hand over Hilda’s.
“At least Ricberht is gone now. Sigeberht leaves us alone,” she murmured.
Hilda nodded and gave Freya a tremulous smile. “In that we are truly fortunate. I know he is stern, but I believe we are lucky to have Sigeberht as our master.”
It was quiet in the hall this evening. Only a few of the hall’s older residents sat about the fire pit, conversing in low voices. The younger warriors, Aidan and Ecgric among them, were not present this eve. The king and Felix sat on the dais, deep in discussion. Above the crackle of the fire pit, Freya could make out their conversation.
“I remember the schools you showed me in Gaul.” Sigeberht leaned close to the monk, his eyes alive with rare excitement. “I wish to open such a school here. ‘Tis my dream to teach boys how to read and write in Latin.”
“Then you should,” Felix replied eagerly, “and I would be honored to help you.”
“I shall begin looking for a suitable position then. What do you think about the Lark Valley? Would it not make an ideal site…?”
Freya, bored of eavesdropping on what she found to be a dull conversation, focused instead on her mending. Outside, she could hear the faint rhythm of drums, as the night’s festivities continued. She sighed and blinked her tired eyes. With a pile of clothing to mend, it would be a long evening.
***
Aidan took a gulp of mead and watched the flames dance. He had thought that joining the revelers this eve would improve his mood but he had been wrong. If anything, the revelry and laughter just grated upon his nerves and made him feel even angrier.
His dreams were in tatters.
With just a few words, Sigeberht had cast him aside like a soiled garment. It mattered not that he had served Sigeberht loyally for years, or that he had risked his life for him numerous times. These days, the king preferred to agonize over the fact that they had fought their way into Rendlaesham, before slaying Ricberht and all others who opposed them. It had been a bloody, vicious battle; but without it, Sigeberht would not be king.