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

by Jayne Castel

  The wet wool of his habit started to itch his skin, making it feel as if an army of ants marched up and down his back. By the time Cuthbert straightened up and lowered his hands, Leofric was clenching his jaw in discomfort.

  Silently the monks filed out of the church, heading toward the low-slung dwellings outside where they slept. Leofric made to follow them, at Deorwine’s heels, when Cuthbert’s voice—low but commanding—halted him.

  “Brother Leofric—stay.”

  Letting out the breath he had been holding, for he had hoped that this time he might be excused his lateness, Leofric halted. He turned to face the prior, as behind him the church emptied. Cuthbert approached him; his gait unhurried, his manner as serene as ever.

  The prior was over two decades older than Leofric, although he wore his years well. He had a lean, gentle face with earnest eyes the color of rich earth. His hair and beard were thick and ash-brown, although his long, slightly hooked nose gave him a hawkish appearance.

  However, his mouth revealed the most about the prior. Cuthbert’s lips were small and pursed, hinting at a character that enjoyed self-denial and austerity. Such a mouth had never reveled in sensuality of any kind, whether it was for food, mead, women—or men.

  “Brother Leofric,” the prior greeted him with a shake of the head. “Late again … may I ask why?”

  “I was collecting driftwood for the hearth, Father,” Leofric answered, dipping his head. “The bad weather caught me by surprise, and I lost track of the time. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

  Cuthbert let out a soft sigh. “You said the same thing two days ago, and a day before that. Please only apologize to me if you actually mean it.”

  Leofric glanced up, surprised at the prior’s shrewdness; that was the closest Cuthbert had ever come to telling him off outright. Their gazes met and held for a heartbeat.

  “Piety, diligence, and obedience,” Cuthbert began quietly. “These are the values all the monks here live by—only you do not share our beliefs.”

  Leofric opened his mouth to excuse himself but the prior intercepted him. “I know Godwine of Eoforwic forced you to come here. I understood from your first night here that you are not made to be a monk.”

  “Then send me away, Father,” Leofric said, hope rising in his chest. Maybe Cuthbert had finally come to his senses. “You speak the truth—this is not my place.”

  Cuthbert’s pursed mouth compressed slightly. “I do not give you leave to go—it would only bring death upon you. The ealdorman made it clear there will be a price on your head, if you ever leave Lindisfarena. Whether or not you wish it, he has condemned you to this life.”

  Bitterness rose within Leofric. The walls of the small stone church closed in on him, and he struggled to breathe. He hated this life: the meanness, dullness, and endless routine of it. The youngest of five sons of a wealthy thegn—for his father was Godwine’s most favored retainer—he had lived a free, charmed life until the day he insulted Godwine of Eoforwic’s daughter.

  Unlike his two elder sisters, who worked hard from dawn to dusk alongside his mother to run his father’s hall, Leofric’s days had been spent riding, hawking, hunting—and whoring. As soon as he was old enough, he had enjoyed many nights in Eoforwic’s meadhall, in the company of lewd women who drank alongside the men there. It might have been shallow, but he had loved that life and would have given anything to return to it.

  Leofric’s feelings must have shown plainly on his face, for Cuthbert watched him steadily, sympathy in his dark eyes.

  “Is such a fate so terrible?” he asked.

  Leofric dropped his gaze, his cheeks warming under the prior’s scrutiny. Cuthbert had an uncanny ability to make him feel unworthy; something no one had ever had the ability to do. His father and brothers had taunted him growing up—the fate of the youngest son—but their insults had flowed off him like water off an oilskin cloak. Cuthbert was different. He never stooped to insults, or even raised his voice. Yet with just a quietly spoken observation he made Leofric feel like a spoiled, callow youth.

  “You may not realize it now,” Cuthbert continued, when it became clear that Leofric had nothing to say, “but everything happens for a reason. God wanted you to come here, to learn humility and obedience.”

  Leofric gritted his teeth but held his tongue. Hang your sniveling god. He had grown up believing in Woden, Thunor, and Freya, and it had felt right to him. Then his father—to find favor with Godwine—had forced his entire family to be baptized. He had destroyed the stone idols of the gods that had once decorated their home and beaten his children if he caught them favoring their old beliefs.

  Perhaps seeing he was getting nowhere, the prior inhaled deeply and stepped back from the younger man. “Go to your pallet now and think on what I have said. As punishment for your lateness you will spend tomorrow morning here in church, praying with me to atone for your lack of diligence.”

  Leofric tensed and glanced up, scowling at the prior. He would have preferred a beating to a morning of prayer—it bored him witless. “But I’ve got chores to do.”

  “Your brothers will take care of them for tomorrow,” Cuthbert replied.

  The prior then turned away, signaling that their conversation had ended.

  Leofric left the church and retrieved his bag of damp driftwood, before returning to the squat timber dwelling that he shared with Deorwine and two other postulant monks. He was in a foul mood. The thought of spending the morning on his knees chanting made him want to run out of the monastery and throw himself in the churning sea.

  Worse still, Cuthbert had made his situation clear. The prior was not responsible for keeping Leofric here—Godwine of Eoforwic was. Both of them knew the truth.

  It was as black as pitch inside the dwelling, and he could already hear two of his companions snoring. Life was physically grueling upon Lindisfarena; they must have fallen asleep the moment they stretched out on their sleeping pallets.

  Leofric left the bag of wood near the door before moving carefully in the dark, around the edge of the one-room hut. His pallet lay under the tiny window on the far side of the dwelling, next to Deorwine’s.

  Reaching his destination, he stubbed his toe on the edge of the pallet and muttered a curse under his breath. Then he stripped off his damp habit and climbed under the coarse, itchy blanket. Outside, the wind and rain buffeted the wooden frame of the hut, probing through the cracks like seeking, cold fingers.

  “Leo …” Deorwine whispered, his voice barely audible above the roar of the storm. “Are you in trouble again with the prior?”

  Leofric snorted. “Of course.”

  “I don’t understand why you were late again. You know—”

  “Enough,” Leofric growled. “I don’t need you preaching to me as well.”

  Deorwine obeyed and fell silent. After a few moments, Leofric started to feel like a cur for snapping at him. “How do you bear it, Deorwine?” he asked finally, despair pressing down like a boulder upon his chest.

  “What?” Deorwine mumbled, half asleep.

  “The thought of spending the rest of your life here. Never having a woman again. Never being able to hunt, drink, and fight like other men.”

  In the darkness, he could almost sense his friend’s smile. They were around the same age, but they came from vastly different worlds. Leofric knew his approach to life often amused as much as it bemused his friend.

  “My village is poor,” Deorwine replied. “Life is mean and hard. Every winter brings fear of starvation or dying from the cold. My father looked like an old man at thirty winters and my mother died birthing her eighth child. Before coming here, all I had to look forward to was back-breaking toil in the fields.”

  “But you’d have a woman at least.”

  Deorwine gave a low laugh. “I wouldn’t want to put a wife through such a life. To get her with child and then fear she’d die birthing it, to watch her youth and fairness wither years before they should.”

  Take
n aback, Leofric considered his friend’s words. “Surely you’re exaggerating. The life of a cottar isn’t so bad.”

  “Says the son of a rich man,” Deorwine countered, although there was no bitterness in his words.

  Chapter Five

  Cat and Mouse

  “What did you say your name was, girl?”

  Aelfwyn poured milk into the king’s cup and tried to quell the nervousness that fluttered in the pit of her belly. She wished Ecgfrith would ignore her. Mealtimes had turned into a game of ‘cat and mouse’. Yesterday evening she had caught the king staring at her while she helped serve the evening meal. Ecgfrith’s gaze now lazily traveled the length of her as she served him. He did not seem to care that his wife, kin, and retainers all looked on.

  “Aelfwyn, milord,” she replied, deliberately averting her gaze.

  “And who is your father, Aelfwyn? Does he serve the King of the East Angles or one of his ealdormen?”

  “He’s thegn to King Ealdwulf, milord.”

  She could feel Ecgfrith’s gaze on her face and sensed her mistress tense beside him. Kings did not indulge in chatter with their servants; his sudden interest in her background only made Aelfwyn more nervous. However, Ecgfrith had not finished his interrogation.

  “Surely he could have found a better fate for you than this, fair Aelfwyn?”

  Surprised, she glanced up. Instantly his gaze seized hers. Ecgfrith’s eyes were unusual, light hazel with grey around the pupils. They held her fast.

  “What do you mean, milord?” she asked, heat rising up her neck.

  “A handmaid?” His eyebrow lifted. “A girl of such beauty should be a lady of a vast hall, with servants waiting upon her.”

  Aelfwyn’s blush rose further. She finished her task of filling his cup and accidently splashed some milk over the rim in her haste to be gone from his side.

  “Sorry, milord,” she gasped, backing off. The king merely watched her, unsmiling, his unnervingly intense stare scorching her.

  “You’re frightening the maid, Lord Ecgfrith.” Bishop Wilfrid spoke up, wiping broth off his neatly trimmed grey moustache. He had glanced up from his meal long enough to notice Aelfwyn backing away from the king. His tone was censorious, although the king did not heed him, his gaze never leaving Aelfwyn.

  “Am I?” he replied. “I was merely exchanging pleasantries.”

  “My handmaid is the youngest of many sisters and had few choices open to her.” Aethelhild spoke then, her voice colder than Aelfwyn had ever heard it. “Aelfwyn’s service to me is an honor indeed—for me as much as her. The bishop is right, you are plainly frightening her.”

  Ecgfrith cast his wife a cool look. “I don’t remember asking your opinion, wife. If I wish to address your handmaid, I will.”

  With that, he downed his cup of milk in a couple of gulps and slammed it down on the table in front of him.

  “Aelfwyn,” he called out. “My cup is empty.”

  Inhaling deeply, Aelfwyn turned from where she had been about the fill Lady Eanflaed’s cup and reluctantly retraced her steps back to the king. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Queen Mother stiffen. Lady Eanflaed’s mouth pursed in disapproval, and she cast a stern look at her son—one which the king ignored.

  He was punishing Aethelhild by humiliating her loyal servant.

  “So,” he said, as she leaned over him to refill his cup, his voice low and intimate. “The youngest of many sisters. Are they all as fair as you?”

  Aelfwyn stiffened. “Much fairer, milord.” It was true, her sisters were all beauties; her family had always considered her the runt of the litter.

  Ecgfrith laughed softly. “So fair yet so modest—I like that in a woman.”

  Aelfwyn glanced over at Aethelhild and saw that her mistress sat rigid in her chair, her face pale and pinched. As he had hoped, Ecgfrith was wounding her. Anger at his rudeness bubbled up within Aelfwyn. He was like a spoiled child, misbehaving because he had not gotten his own way.

  Deftly, she finished pouring milk into his cup, before she moved down the table to Lady Eanflaed.

  The king’s gaze followed her.

  Aelfwyn avoided the king and queen for the rest of the morning.

  After her humiliation, she felt embarrassed to face Aethelhild, worrying that her mistress would somehow think it was her fault—that she had encouraged him in some way.

  To distract herself from the anxiety that now gnawed at the pit of her belly, she threw herself into her chores. There was always plenty to keep her busy in the Great Hall of Bebbanburg. The cooks were preparing apple pies for the noon meal, and Aelfwyn worked alongside them, peeling and coring the apples before making pastry for the pies.

  Around her, the Great Hall bustled with activity. The air smelled of damp leather and wool, mingled with the smoke from the four hearths that burned inside the tower. A storm had howled for most of the previous night, battering the stone walls. Aelfwyn had lain awake in her alcove listening to its fury. She had liked the feeling of being snug and warm among her furs while the rain and wind raged outside.

  Aethelhild disappeared into her quarters after breaking her fast and only emerged briefly to eat at noon. Aelfwyn served them again, her stomach churning as she circuited the table with a jug of wine. Mercifully, the king ignored her this time, although this only increased Aelfwyn’s sense of unease. He was toying with her and Aethelhild, waiting until the pair of them relaxed before pouncing once more.

  After the noon meal, Aelfwyn went out to the kitchen gardens behind the tower, where she helped other servants weed the beds of cabbages, carrots, kale, and onions growing there. Hemmed in on three sides by the inner palisade and the tower on the other, the gardens were sheltered from the prevailing winds.

  It was a cool, gusty afternoon and feathery clouds chased each other across the sky as Aelfwyn worked. She listened to the gossiping of the servants around her and slowly relaxed.

  She had been so excited to travel north to Bebbanburg. Unlike Aethelhild, she had seen her new life as an opportunity—a chance for some freedom. But things were not working out quite as she had planned. She had not realized her mistress intended to refuse her new husband or that Ecgfrith would unnerve her so. She had always thought of Ealdwulf, King of the East Angles, as a coarse, rough man—but she realized now that Ealdwulf was straightforward and good-hearted in comparison to Ecgfrith. She had never seen him take pleasure in humiliating his women-folk like the King of Northumbria did.

  Once the weeding was done, Aelfwyn reluctantly returned indoors, where she passed the afternoon sewing and spinning at her mistress’s side. Aethelhild was withdrawn today, and the two women barely spoke as they worked.

  The anxiety that had subsided slightly while Aelfwyn worked indoors returned, causing her stomach to cramp.

  Does she blame me?

  She longed to confront Aethelhild about it but lacked the courage. The look of anger on her mistress’s face that morning warned her of bringing up the subject of the king’s behavior.

  A rosy dusk settled over Bebbanburg, promising better weather for the following day. The evenings were longer here in the north, the twilight stretching out for an eternity before darkness settled over the land.

  Aelfwyn usually enjoyed the long evenings, but today she longed to retire to the privacy of her alcove, where she could be alone with her thoughts.

  After a light supper of braised onions, cheese, and bread, Ecgfrith settled down to a game of Cyningtaefl—King’s Table—with the bishop. Engrossed in moving the carved stone pieces across the wooden board, the king barely acknowledged the queen as she rose from his side. Aethelhild bid them all good night and made her way back to her quarters without a glance in Aelfwyn’s direction. Often after supper, once Aelfwyn had finished helping the slaves and servants clean up, the two women would sit together by the firepit for a while with a cup of warm milk. Tonight it appeared the queen did not wish for company.

  Blinking back tears, Aelfwyn stared down at the
tabletop she was wiping down.

  Tomorrow I will speak with Aethelhild, she promised herself. She could not bear to let Ecgfrith destroy their friendship.

  The rain had rolled off to the south but it was a windy night. Aelfwyn retired to her alcove early, listening to the wind roaring and gusting around the tower, pummeling its walls with mighty fists. She loved this time of day, especially if the weather was bad outside. A faint glow from the fires filtered through the hanging that divided her alcove from the rest of the hall, illuminating her small, private space.

  Although the alcove was cramped with a low ceiling that made it impossible to stand up without bashing one’s head, it was a cozy, warm spot. She had placed her furs against the far wall, with her clothing neatly folded opposite. She also had a tiny wooden trestle table where she had put a jug of water and a cup; and a dish of drying lavender, which scented the air.

  Aelfwyn lay awake for a while, mulling over the day’s events and over what she would say to her mistress the following day. Evenings were the only time she had the luxury of losing herself in her own thoughts.

  Beyond her alcove, the hearths slowly burned down to embers, and slaves extinguished all but a couple of cressets near the doors leading out to the privies. The rumble of conversation died away as the residents of the hall retired to their alcoves or stretched out on their cloaks upon the rush-strewn floor.

  Aelfwyn eventually dozed off. She was dreaming of home—of the sun gleaming off the golden thatched roof of Rendlaesham’s Great Hall as she wandered home from market—when a hand clamped over her mouth.

  The dream disintegrated, scattering like a pile of autumn leaves. Aelfwyn’s eyes snapped open, and she found herself staring up into the king’s face.

  Ecgfrith smiled down at her, his hazel eyes dark with desire. He lowered his body against hers, pressing Aelfwyn into the furs.

  Then he raised his free hand and placed a finger to his lips, warning her to keep silent. “It’s just you and me now, fair Aelfwyn,” he whispered.