by Jayne Castel
“East, roughly,” Freya replied. “Watch the sun as the afternoon passes. We should be travelling in the opposite direction to it.”
Hereric nodded. “Do you think we’ve outrun the Mercians?”
Freya smiled at that. “I don’t think we’ve outrun them Hereric. If they’d been chasing us, they would have caught us a long time ago. We’re just travelling in a different direction to them at present. We must keep moving if we don’t want to cross paths again.”
By the time night fell, Freya and Hereric were so exhausted they had begun to stagger. They rested for the night near a water course filled with murky water that did not look fit to drink. Freya noticed the ground was getting damper and spongier, and wondered if they were wandering into marshland. She hoped not. Trekking across marshes would be slow, unpleasant and potentially fatal.
Hereric was too exhausted to go rabbiting with his slingshot, so they ate stale bread, salted pork and a crisp red apple each. Too exhausted to even speak, they sat either side of the campfire and listened to the night. Once she had recovered sufficiently, Freya hobbled over to the cart and checked on Aidan. His brow was warm, rather than feverish, which was a good sign; although once again the light was too poor for her to check his head wound. Still, she reflected, their priority today had been to get as far from the Mercians as possible. They would be able to travel at a more moderate pace tomorrow.
Like the night before, Freya got Hereric to boil some water for washing Aidan’s wounds. As he had still not woken, they could feed him nothing. Instead, Freya sat, with his head on her lap and dribbled water into his mouth.
It would have to be enough to sustain him for now.
The next morning, Freya awoke to find the sun shining on her face. She sat up, groggy and with a faint sense of panic that she had overslept. In contrast to the day before, today was breezy and cold. Scudding clouds moved across the sky, playing hide-and-seek with a pale sun.
“Hereric,” Freya croaked. She clambered to her feet and winced as her limbs protested. She ached all over. Muscles hurt that she did not even know she possessed. Today, she would have to take things slower, whether she wanted to or not. Nearby, her young companion rolled over onto his side and rubbed his eyes. Leaving him to wake up, and prepare something to break their fast, Freya hobbled over to the cart to check on Aidan.
There did not appear to be much change from the night before. Aidan still slept deeply, and showed no sign of waking. Carefully, Freya rolled him onto his front so that she could check the injury on the back of his head. It was difficult to see the extent of it as his hair had dried into a thick, bloodied mat. It was with regret that Freya was forced to use her knife to cut away his beautiful hair so that she could see his scalp. When she finally saw the injury, Freya winced. It looked as if something blunt and heavy had hit him very hard. The flesh was swollen and scabbed but when Freya probed gently with her fingers she could find no fractures or breaks in his skull. Her mother needed to see this wound. It was beyond her skill to heal.
Stay with me Aidan, she stroked his brow and gazed down at his face. You’ve made it this far, just a bit farther.
A short time later, they set out once more. Yesterday’s fears were realized when Freya saw they were travelling further into marshland. The ground became wet underfoot and they soon had to navigate their way around stagnant pools and reed beds. Yet, this was the way east, and Freya was determined that they should continue in this direction. She was afraid that if they changed direction, they would never find their way back to Woodbridge Haven.
“At least the Mercians won’t bother riding in here,” Hereric commented, swatting at a cloud of midges that were attempting to eat him alive.
“That’s true enough,” Freya replied sourly, heaving the cart through a deep puddle. “Only a fool would lead you through the middle of a bog!”
***
Four days later, they finally reached the upper reaches of the Deben. When Freya saw the unmistakable outline of the Great Barrows of Kings rising before her, she nearly wept for joy. Unlike the Freya’s last visit to the Barrows, this spot appeared deserted.
There had been times over the past few days when she had been sure she had got them well and truly lost. The marshland had nearly been their undoing. She had lost count of the times she and Hereric had struggled to pull the cart free of a sucking bog. They had spent two nights in the marshland, and had slept huddled in the back of the cart with no fire to warm them; there had been no spot dry enough to make camp in.
Through it all, Hereric had not complained once. He was a cheerful companion, even when the skies opened and pelted them with stinging hail, or when they ran out of food in the marshland and had nothing but an onion each for supper. Freya knew she would never have reached the Great Barrows of Kings without him.
That night they camped in a lime-tree copse, not far from the barrows. Hereric went out with his slingshot and brought back four fat rabbits.
While he was away hunting, Aidan awoke.
Freya had been tending the fire, coaxing it with damp sticks and cursing the two days of rain since they had left the marshes, which made finding any dry wood a challenge, when she heard a faint groan.
She dropped the wood and rushed over to where Aidan lay on his right, facing the fire. His eyelids were flickering. As Freya reached him, he groaned again.
“For the love of Woden I’m dry.” Aidan’s voice was so hoarse he could barely speak.
“Here.” Freya unstoppered the water bladder and placed it to his lips. “Take a few sips, gently now.”
“Has a horse ridden over my head?” His eyes flickered open, unfocused for a moment before he fixed upon Freya. She could see the confusion in his gaze but waited for him to adjust to his surroundings before she explained anything.
“I should be dead,” he rasped. “Are you my prize in the afterlife?”
Freya laughed at that. “I doubt you’ll be as fortunate as that Aidan of Connacht. No you are very much alive – and so am I. Hereric and I found you on the battlefield and we’re taking you back to Woodbridge Haven.”
Aidan stared at her, taking it all in, before his eyes closed once more. Freya saw the naked pain on his face – not the pain from his wounds – but from the memories of what he had seen and lived through on Barrow Fields.
“The Mercians won.” It was a statement rather than a question but Freya answered it anyway.
“Yes – they took a small group of warriors hostage; the rest they left on the battlefield.”
“Do you know who survived?”
“No, it was too far away to see, but when we searched the dead I saw Ecgric, Sigeberht, Aldwulf and Lothar. Edwin helped us search for you, but he found the bodies of his father and brothers on the field. Not one of his kin survived.”
“I told him to stay in Beodricesworth,” Aidan growled, reopening his eyes, “and I told you to go straight home.”
Freya had to smile at that. “Since when do boys do what they’re told, or women…?”
Pain clouded Aidan’s face then; a sensation that was more than physical.
“I saw Lothar fall,” he said hoarsely, tears running down his cheeks. “My friend – with a pregnant wife waiting for him at home. Life is a cruel bitch. I would have given my life for that man. It’s not right that I should live and he not.”
Hereric returned with the rabbits and was delighted to find Aidan awake. He sat, chattering to Aidan, regaling him of their adventures since the battle, until Freya told him to leave Aidan be and help her skin and gut the rabbits.
Once the rabbits had spit-roasted over the fire, the three companions devoured them. Freya was worried that, since he had just awoken, Aidan would lack appetite. The opposite was true. They propped him up against a tree trunk so that he could eat his rabbit without choking. Like Hereric and Freya, he gnawed at the bones, even when he had picked them clean.
“How are you feeling?” Freya threw the rabbit bones on the fire and sat down next to A
idan. “How’s your head?”
“I’ve felt better.” Aidan managed a weak smile. “Although that rabbit has made all the difference. My head still feels about twice the size though. It hurts me badly.”
“You took a massive blow to the back of the head. It looks like you were hit by a rock or the blunt edge of an axe,” Freya replied. “We found you pinned under a Mercian axeman.”
Freya paused then as another thought suddenly occurred to her. “Of course, there may have been others who were still alive amongst the dead, but there was no time to search for them.”
Aidan nodded, his dark-blue eyes filled with pain. “What you did was very brave, and very foolhardy, sweet Freya.” He reached out and placed a hand over hers. “But I am pleased you did it.”
Freya looked down and fought back tears. “I had to look for you. I couldn’t go on with my life wondering what had happened to you. If you were dead then I needed to see it with my own eyes.”
“You are unlike any woman I have ever met,” Aidan replied quietly, his voice catching. “Brave, proud and beautiful. I love you. I should have told you before I left for Barrow Fields but I foolishly thought I’d wait.”
Freya stared at Aidan, tears running down her face. She was unable to speak, and when she finally managed, the words were barely above a whisper.
“And I love you.”
Aidan squeezed her hand tightly, his gaze holding hers fast. “You are worth living for, and you are worth dying for. You are the only woman I will ever love.”
Chapter Twenty-four
It was a cold, misty morning when Freya rose from beside the fire and poked at the dying embers with a stick. Hereric sat opposite her, owl-eyed from taking the last watch. Behind them, Aidan slept fitfully. His head was paining him terribly, and this worried Freya. He needed Cwen’s care.
“Are we going soon?” Hereric asked.
Freya shook her head. “It will take us at least another day if we continue on foot. I was hoping to find a way to travel down-river.”
“But we don’t have a boat.”
“I know that,” Freya sighed as fatigue weighed down upon her, “but maybe I can find one. Wait here and keep the fire burning. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Freya wrapped the shawl that Aidan had given her back in Beodricesworth about her shoulders. The shawl was a little worse for wear now, but it still provided some protection from the damp, chilly day. Taking care to move quietly, Freya made her way out of the copse and peered out at where the shadows of the Great Barrows of Kings loomed over the river.
The tide was coming in. At its lowest point, the water was just over two feet, too shallow for any boats to sail in. At high tide, the river rose to at least eleven feet; more than deep enough for most barges and longboats. There were no boats laying on the bank this morning, but Freya knew that most travelers on their way to Rendlaesham docked here. There were a number of villages on the banks of the Deben and it was a busy waterway. As such, Freya guessed that if she waited a while, a boat would come.
She sat down at the edge of the copse, hidden from view by undergrowth, and waited.
The tide rose quickly and a misty rain began to fall, coating the world in tiny, sparkling droplets. Freya’s hands and feet felt numb with cold and her nose was starting to run, but still she waited.
Mid-morning, a small boat appeared down-river. It moved quickly, its single oarsman paddling with the tide. There were two men on-board but the boat sat low in the water as it was bearing heavy sacks.
Freya watched, her pulse racing, as the boat angled towards the muddy bank. The men climbed out and waded through the water, pulling the boat up through the mud. Once they reached the bank, they hefted the two jute sacks out of the boat.
“How far till Orford?” one of the men asked his companion.
“We should reach it just after noon,” his companion replied, “but the tide will have turned by then. Once we off-load these, I suggest we spend the rest of the day in Orford’s mead hall. It’s just the weather for it. We’ll sail back to Ramsholt with tomorrow’s tide.”
“You’ve got no argument from me there,” his companion agreed, “but let’s hide the boat if we’re going to leave it overnight.”
Freya held her breath and watched as the men placed the oars inside the boat and carried it into the copse. A moment later, she realized they were coming straight towards her. She flattened herself on the ground and had just wedged herself under some prickly undergrowth, when she heard the men stop just feet away.
“Cover it up with some ferns,” one of the men instructed. “It should be safe here, especially in this weather.”
Freya lay still and silent while the men moved off. She waited until their voices had completely faded before she wriggled out from the undergrowth and ran to get the others.
Soon the tide would turn, and they would be on their way to Woodbridge Haven.
***
The rain fell in a soft veil over the world. Freya heaved back on the oars and raised her face to it. Either-side of her the waters of the River Deben stippled slightly in the rain. They had been travelling down river ever since noon, but it was impossible to know how much time had actually passed for the sun had not once shown its face.
Hereric sat behind Freya, perched at the bow, while Aidan sat at the stern. The paleness of Aidan’s face worried Freya, as did the deep grooves of pain that appeared either side of his mouth. He slumped against the side of the boat and did not pay much attention to his surroundings.
The farther they travelled down-river, the wider the Deben became. Once they reached the estuary, the river would become so wide that it would be impossible to see from one bank to the other. Freya had instructed Hereric to keep a watchful eye out for a stand of trees close to the north bank once they passed a few tiny islands in the center of the estuary. Those trees signaled the edge of the woodland where her mother lived.
“Look Freya!” Hereric eventually called out. “Are those the trees you spoke of?”
Freya glanced over her shoulder. Her heart soared when she saw the dark line of trees that almost reached the water’s edge, followed by a steep bank with steps leading down to the mud.
“That’s it!” she called back, her voice tight with excitement. “We’re home!”
Freya and Hereric clambered off the boat and waded in through the clinging mud, pulling the boat in as close to the bank as they were able.
It was an effort to get Aidan off the boat. His movements were slow and sluggish, and he was finding it difficult to coordinate his limbs properly. Eventually, they managed to help him to the bank, and up the narrow steps that had been cut into it.
Reaching the top, Freya felt a rush of joy as the smell of wet vegetation hit her. There had been times over the past few months that she had thought never to see these woods again.
With Hereric supporting Aidan’s right side, and Freya his left, they made their way down the leaf-strewn path that cut through the forest. Eventually the path would lead to the other-side of the woods, and the hamlet of Bawdsey – but they would not need to travel that far.
After a while, Freya instructed Hereric to veer right, off the path. They had walked some distance farther when the trees drew back and they stepped into a small clearing.
A small wattle and daub cottage, with a thatch roof in need of repair sat in the heart of the clearing. A large vegetable plot stretched behind the structure, as did a small fenced enclosure where Cwen of Woodbridge Haven kept her chickens.
“Mōder!” Freya shouted as they approached the cottage. “Mōder, are you there!”
Freya saw smoke rising from the thatched roof and her eyes filled with tears. Her mother was home. They were safe.
The door flew open and Cwen rushed out, her hands dusty with flour. They had interrupted her in the midst of making bread.
“Freya!”
Cwen sprinted over the wet ground, her long brown hair flying behind her like a flag. Freya stepped forward and em
braced her mother fiercely, unable to stop the tears that suddenly flowed over her cheeks. Great sobs rose within her. The relief was so great she felt as if her legs might give out under her.
“You’re home!” Cwen cried, hugging Freya so hard her ribs hurt. “But how? How did you…” Cwen reached out and touched the iron collar around Freya’s neck, her eyes narrowing.
“It’s a long story; one that needs us all sitting in front of a warm fire with food in our bellies.” Freya stepped back and wiped her eyes. “For now let me introduce you to Hereric and Aidan. Mōder, Aidan has been wounded in battle. His wounds are seven days old. Can you help him?”
Cwen’s gaze shifted to Aidan, her practiced healer’s gaze taking him in with a single sweep. Looking upon her mother’s face, Freya saw there were lines that had not been there a year ago. There were more strands of grey in Cwen of Shottisham’s brown mane than Freya remembered. The grief of losing her daughter to Ricberht had taken its toll. Yet her hazel eyes were as bright as ever.
“We need to get him inside,” she said quietly. “Follow me.”
It was warm and dry inside the cottage, with a roaring fire in the hearth. Hereric sank down onto a sheepskin with a sigh of pleasure and gratefully took the earthen bowl of pottage that Cwen passed him. Meanwhile, Freya had taken Aidan over to the pile of furs, where Cwen slept in the far corner of the dwelling.
“Boil me some water Freya while I get my herbs,” Cwen ordered.
Freya smiled as she went to do her mother’s bidding; she had missed Cwen’s bossiness.
Aidan was sitting groggily on the furs, watching the industry of the two women. “She’s quite a woman your mother,” he commented when Freya helped him out of his leather vest. She began to unwind the bandages around his chest, shoulder and head so Cwen could take a look at his injuries.
“She most certainly is,” Freya smiled. “She’ll take good care of you.”