The Whispering Wind (The Kingdom 0f Northumbria Book 1)

by Jayne Castel

  One month later …

  Chapter One

  A Warm Welcome

  Bebbanburg, Kingdom of Northumbria, Britannia

  Aelfwyn gazed at the wooden ramparts silhouetted against the northern horizon. Her stomach fluttered.

  Bebbanburg.

  “We’re here at last.” She glanced right, at where her mistress, Aethelhild, rode. As usual, the princess’s face, framed by a headrail, was a picture of serenity. If she was anxious or worried, Aethelhild hid it well.

  Feeling Aelfwyn’s gaze upon her, Aethelhild glanced her way, her sharp blue eyes spearing her handmaid. “It’s impressive, is it not?”

  Aelfwyn nodded, a grin stretching her face. Even at this distance, the great fort put the ‘Golden Hall’ of Rendlaesham, seat of the King of the East Angles, to shame. Bebbanburg perched high upon a rocky outcrop, commanding a view for many furlongs distant. “Aye,” she replied. “I can hardly wait to see inside.”

  Aethelhild smiled back, although the expression did not reach her eyes. “You will, soon enough.”

  Aelfwyn watched Aethelhild turn her attention back to the road ahead. She knew the princess did not wish to be wed again. She had been handfasted at sixteen, to an ealdorman twenty years her senior. Their fifteen-year union had been childless and when her husband choked to death on a piece of mutton, Aethelhild had wanted to take her vows and become a nun. However, her father—Ealdwulf, King of the East Angles—had other plans for his daughter.

  She was too valuable to be allowed to spend the rest of her days in an abbey.

  Turning her own gaze north, Aelfwyn looked once more upon the outline of Bebbanburg, to where the late afternoon sun turned the wooden ramparts gold. Although her mistress bore her duty stoically, this new life presented an opportunity for Aelfwyn. For months, she had dreamed of this moment, of the day she would arrive at the northern stronghold.

  This was a new beginning, for she had chafed under the restrictions of her old life in Rendlaesham. She was the youngest of six daughters. Her father had been desperate to find a use for her—one that did not include providing a dowry. Paying for Aelfwyn’s five elder sisters had bled him dry.

  Few options were open to her. It was either become a nun or serve a highborn lady. Since, unlike her mistress, a life in the service of god had never appealed to Aelfwyn, she had chosen the latter.

  Aelfwyn turned her face up to the sky, enjoying the sun on her face. It had been a long, tiring journey from Rendlaesham. It was high summer, but they’d had days of misty rain. The sun had rarely shown its face, lost behind a curtain of grey. Aelfwyn was tired of riding—and tired of eating hard cheese and stale bread. It would be a luxury to have a roof over her head again and sleep near a fire pit.

  The women rode in the midst of a company of warriors: East Angle spearmen whom the king had charged with protecting the princess and her handmaid. The rumble of men’s voices around them mingled with the crash of surf. They rode close to the sea now. Aelfwyn breathed in the salt-laced air and felt nervous anticipation tug at her breast. Her new life was about to begin.

  The fortress of Bebbanburg inched slowly closer, until the rocky mount on which it stood become the heavens. The outcrop of red rock towered at least ninety feet above the patchwork of farmland below it.

  Aelfwyn craned her neck as they trotted up the last incline toward the low gate. The Northumbrian flag—eight yellow rectangles on a blood-red field—fluttered in the sea breeze from one of the guard towers above her.

  Ahead the gates drew open to admit them. Excitement fluttered once more in the pit of her belly, and Aelfwyn urged her pony on.

  They rode up the main thoroughfare of Bebbanburg; a dirt street flanked either side by byres, stables, and the workshops of armorers, weaponsmiths and carpenters. Folk ventured out to greet them; a sea of curious faces stared up at the Lady of the East Angles and her escort. Aelfwyn could see no hostility on their faces, yet she felt slightly uncomfortable all the same.

  I wonder what they think of us.

  On the western edge of the outcrop, the Great Tower of Bebbanburg rose high above the carpet of thatched roofs below. It was grander than Aelfwyn had expected. The tower was much sturdier than the ‘Golden Hall’ of the East Angles, which was a huge timbered structure with a gleaming straw-thatch roof.

  They entered the inner palisade through the high gate, into a wide yard. A sprawling stable complex spread out to their right, whereas an orchard of apples and pears took up the left hand-side of the space. The Great Tower intersected these two areas.

  Aelfwyn grinned—she had entered a green and peaceful world crowned by a wide sky. It felt like a hawk’s eyrie up here. Still smiling, she dismounted from her pony and hurried across to help her mistress.

  “Do you think it’s more beautiful than the Golden Hall?” she asked Aethelhild as she brushed horsehair off her mistress’s robes to ensure she looked presentable to the king.

  Aethelhild nodded. “Much more so.” However, her gaze had turned inward, and she refused to meet her maid’s eye. Aelfwyn realized that despite her aura of calm, the princess of the East Angles was dreading what lay ahead.

  They entered the Great Tower. Two East Angle warriors led the way, followed by the princess and her handmaid. A knot of four more warriors brought up the rear. The interior of the tower was a great red-hued cavern. Torches hung from braces on the walls, and four massive fire pits burned bright, illuminating the faces of the ogling crowd. Men and women—the king’s retainers and their wives and children—gawked at the East Angle princess and whispered amongst themselves.

  Aethelhild strode, stiff-backed, through their midst, looking neither left nor right. Aelfwyn hurried after her, impressed by the princess’s poise.

  The king awaited his betrothed, seated upon the heah-setl.

  He was not what Aelfwyn had been expecting.

  Unlike King Ealdwulf of the East Angles—who was of middling years, with a mane of grizzled blond hair and an expanding waistline—Ecgfrith of Northumbria was young. No more than five and twenty winters, he was slim with short sandy hair. He was dressed simply in a linen tunic with a gold trim and doeskin leggings. A grey squirrel cloak hung from his shoulders, fastened with gold-plated clasps. Aelfwyn noted that he had a long, sharp-featured face and a watchful gaze that did not leave his betrothed as she made her way across the hall toward him.

  A small group of highborn—members of the royal family—stood behind the king. Among them was an older woman with a plump face and greying dark hair coiled in a tight braid around her crown. Aelfwyn guessed this was the King’s mother, Eanflaed, widow of King Oswiu.

  Watching the Queen Mother, Aelfwyn wondered what she thought of this match. The princess, at thirty winters, was much older than her betrothed. There was also the fact she had never produced any children during her previous marriage. Back in Rendlaesham folk gossiped that the princess was barren.

  Even so this marriage represented a strong political alliance between the Kingdoms of Northumbria and the East Angles—a chance to forge lasting peace.

  Ecgfrith rose to his feet, his face still serious. “Welcome to Bebbanburgh, Aethelhild, daughter of Ealdwulf.”

  The two warriors leading the way stepped aside to allow the princess to come forward. Aethelhild curtsied and dipped her head. “I thank you for your welcome, sire.”

  Ecgfrith smiled, an expression that softened his solemn face. He stepped down from the high seat. “Was your journey pleasant?”

  “Comfortable enough, despite the rain.”

  The king’s gaze shifted over the escort amassed behind his betrothed, before settling upon Aelfwyn. She dropped her eyes to the rush-strewn floor but could still feel the weight of his stare pressing her down.

  “I see you have brought a servant,” he murmured.

  “Aye, Aelfwyn is my handmaid.”

  “There are plenty of girls here who would serve you just as well—you can send her back to East Anglia with your father’s men.
”

  Aelfwyn stifled a gasp, dismay flooding through her. Don’t send me away. She glanced up to see her mistress meet the king’s eye.

  “Aelfwyn is my loyal servant. I wish for no other handmaid,” Aethelhild informed him. “The warriors who have accompanied me north are my father’s gift to you. They and Aelfwyn should remain here.”

  Their gazes held, and Aelfwyn glimpsed the unspoken challenge between them. A muscle feathered in the young king’s jaw before he smiled once more—but there was no warmth in his hazel eyes. “Very well,” he said finally. “If it means that much to you, they all may stay.”

  Ecgfrith and Aethelhild were to be handfasted upon the first evening of the princess’s arrival at Bebbanburg. There was just enough time for Aethelhild to bathe and dress for the ceremony, while the king’s household prepared the interior of the Great Hall.

  Hidden from view inside an alcove by a thick fur hanging, Aelfwyn unpacked the gown her mistress had brought for the occasion and hung it up on the wall to air while Aethelhild bathed. The dress was lovely—pale yellow with embroidered gold hems. Aelfwyn and Aethelhild had made it themselves, a job that had taken them nearly all of last winter.

  The chatter of voices reached them from beyond the alcove, as did the scent of baking honey-seed cakes and the aroma of roasting venison; there would be a great feast this eve after the handfasting.

  Aelfwyn did not speak to her mistress as she helped her prepare for the wedding. Aethelhild was not fond of prattle, and the stern look on her face as she sat in the iron tub, scrubbing at her arms as if she wished to remove a layer of skin, warned Aelfwyn from showing any excitement about the coming ceremony.

  After Aethelhild had bathed, Aelfwyn combed out her long dark hair, which was drying in heavy curls down her back. After years of being married and then recently widowed, Aethelhild usually covered her hair with a headrail. It was a pity, in Aelfwyn’s opinion, for her mistress had beautiful hair. It was so different to Aelfwyn’s own mane, which was pale blonde and as fine as thistle blossom; Aethelhild’s braids were twice the thickness of her handmaid’s. Tonight the princess would wear her hair loose for the last time in public. After that only her husband would see her hair unbound.

  Aelfwyn helped Aethelhild into her gown and laced up the back. Her mistress was tall and slim, although with enough curves to fill out her gown beautifully. Aelfwyn wished she was tall like Aethelhild—tall enough to look men in the eye. Although well proportioned, she was tiny in stature; something her sisters had teased her mercilessly over.

  When Aelfwyn stepped back to check everything was in order, her resolve to hold her tongue slipped. “You look like an angel, milady.”

  Aethelhild looked up from where she had been smoothing her full skirts, her mouth twisting. “Do I? I feel like a martyr.”

  Aelfwyn attempted a smile. “Surely, there are worse husbands?”

  Aethelhild shook her head. “I wish for no husband—I want only to be left alone.”

  Aelfwyn stared back at her, taken aback at her mistress’s vehemence. For once, Aethelhild’s shield of ice had splintered, and Aelfwyn glimpsed the desperation that bubbled underneath.

  “I tire of having no say in my fate,” Aethelhild concluded, brushing past her maid to retrieve the heavy amber necklace her father had gifted her for this occasion. “I feel like a fattened sow at market.”

  Chapter Two

  Refusal

  Aelfwyn stirred in the furs, slowly awaking to the sound of industry in the hall beyond her alcove. She slept in a tiny space, to the left of the king and queen’s quarters. It may have been cramped—just big enough for her to cram in her meagre belongings and bedding—but it was a luxury after having to share an alcove with her older sisters, two of whom snored. This was her own, private, space.

  Stretching, Aelfwyn inhaled the scent of fresh griddle bread. However, she was not hungry this morning, not after last night’s magnificent feast. She had also consumed more wine than she was used to, and had a dry mouth and slight headache as a result. Still, she had enjoyed the celebration. She adored handfastings.

  Aelfwyn quickly plaited her hair in two braids and pulled on a woolen dress over the sleeveless linen tunic she had slept in. She did not usually sleep this late. The feasting, drinking, and dancing had gone on until early morning. She hoped the queen would not scold her for it.

  She emerged from her alcove to find the Great Hall of Bebbanburg a hive of activity. Slaves were carrying out rushes soiled by food and drink—and worse—and replacing them with fresh ones. Women stood at long work benches pummeling dough into flat wheels before cooking them on an iron griddle that hung over the fire pits. Children played on the floor, getting in the way of the work of the slaves who were doing their best to clean up last night’s mess. Men sat at long tables, breaking their fast with bread and broth, while the royal family sat upon the high seat.

  Aelfwyn paused, surveying the table upon the heah seatl. It looked a somber, tense meal. The king sat accompanied by his mother and the bishop. Ecgfrith did not look in a good mood. The Queen Mother murmured something to her son and he snapped a response back at her, clearly irritated.

  Bishop Wilfrid, who had conducted the handfasting ceremony the night before, was a tall, spare man with a long, angular face, penetrating dark eyes and a mouth that wore a permanently downturned expression, making him look disapproving. He had a thick head of grey hair, shaved into a tonsure at the crown, and a neatly trimmed beard and moustache. The bishop was the only one at the table with any appetite. He bent low over his bowl of gruel, slurping loudly.

  Aelfwyn looked around the busy hall once more, watching as two lads battled with wooden swords near one of the fire pits. One of them, a good-looking boy with a head of dark wavy hair was shouting insults at his opponent. “Cur! Taste my blade!”

  The other lad, a heavy-set boy with pale, freckled skin and a shock of red hair, had gone the color of a freshly chopped beet. “No—taste mine, Pictish dog!”

  A plump woman with a harassed expression and thick brown hair tied back in a messy braid, descended upon the boys brandishing a wooden spoon. “Bridei, Heolstor—stop it this instant or I’ll tan your arses red.”

  The boys ran off, still hooting insults at each other.

  Aelfwyn’s gaze continued its journey around the interior of the Great Hall. She frowned.

  Where is Aethelhild?

  She dared not approach the high seat and ask the king. Ecgfrith sat slumped in his great oaken chair, his expression mulish.

  Have the newlyweds quarreled already?

  Aelfwyn ducked behind the tapestry that shielded the king and queen’s living quarters from view. She stepped into a lofty space, warmed by a single fire pit in its center. A pile of furs sat in one corner, and leather trunks sat next to them. Fine tapestries, depicting hunting scenes and the bristling outline of Bebbanburg itself, hung from the damp stone walls. A single window, its wooden shutter open this morning, let in a stream of golden sunlight.

  Aethelhild sat under it, upon a wooden stool, calmly winding wool upon her distaff. Aelfwyn halted and let the tapestry fall behind her. Her mistress looked completely different to the bride dressed in shimmering gold who had knelt before the high seat at the young king’s side the night before. A crisp white veil hid her luxurious dark hair and she wore a plain dun-colored woolen tunic that covered her shape. With the sun pouring over her, she looked like a nun at work blessed by the light of the lord, her face beatific in contemplation.

  Aelfwyn took a tentative step forward. “Milady?”

  Aethelhild looked up, her piercing blue gaze settling upon her handmaid. “Good morning, Aelfwyn. Did you sleep well?”

  Aelfwyn nodded. “And you, milady?

  Aethelhild smiled. “Like a babe. Come, join me—I need someone to tease out this wool.” She motioned to the basket at her feet.

  Aelfwyn did as bid, pulling up a stool next to the queen and picking up a handful of wool. It was springy and oil
y in her hands, and smelled of lanolin. She teased out a length of it and began feeding it to Aethelhild, who wound it onto her wooden spindle.

  “Aethelhild, is something amiss?” she asked eventually.

  The queen glanced up. “No, why do you ask that?”

  “The king is seated at the high table alone, with a face like thunder, while you sit in here at your distaff.”

  The queen sighed, her mask of serenity slipping. “I am tired, Aelfwyn. I wish for some peace.”

  Aelfwyn frowned. Her mistress suddenly seemed drained. She wondered how their wedding night had gone, although she was too shy to ask such questions. They worked in companionable silence for a short while before Aethelhild spoke.

  “There are so many things I have no choice in,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper, “but my body is still my own.”

  Aelfwyn looked up, confused.

  Aethelhild met her eye. “I refused to lie with Ecgfrith last night—and I will continue to do so.”

  Aelfwyn gasped. “But you are his wife.”

  “And if he wants to bed me, it will be by force.” Aethelhild’s face hardened. “I had many years of misery, wedded to a brute who used me like a hōre. I will not willingly submit to a man’s touch again—ever.”

  Aelfwyn stared at her mistress with a mixture of awe and fear. The idea of refusing one’s husband was unthinkable. Despite Aelfwyn’s shock at the queen’s audacity, Aethelhild impressed her.

  “How did he react?” she asked, keeping her voice low lest someone overheard them.

  “As you’d expect. He pleaded, threatened, whined—and then sulked.” The derision in Aethelhild’s voice made Aelfwyn wince. She had never realized how much her mistress resented men. “He’ll try again, I’m sure—but the answer will still be the same.”

  “Would you like some wine, milord?”

  The strains of a lyre floated through the Great Hall, rising above the rumble of conversation, as Aelfwyn stood at the king’s elbow with a jug of sloe wine.