by Jayne Castel
Terrified, she clung to Leofric—the only thing between her and drowning. She would sink like a sack of peat if he let go of her.
“Relax,” he called to her over the roar of the river. “You’ll float easier if you don’t fight the water.”
Aelfwyn made a choking sound and tried to obey him. He made it sound simple but it was near to impossible to relax her body when terror pumped through her. Instead she concentrated on her breathing which was coming in short, panicked puffs. She tried to slow and deepen it.
She kept her gaze fixed upon the dark curtain of night stretching above her, at the moon’s friendly face. Leofric appeared to have handed his fate over to the river; she tried to do the same.
For a while the current carried them southeast, toward the coast. Eventually the river flowed into a wider, tidal watercourse—one that appeared to flow out into an estuary. The moon was sinking low in the sky when Leofric carried them to shore. He swam on his back, propelling himself toward the muddy, reed-covered bank on the southern shore with lazy strokes of his right arm, while with his left he kept Aelfwyn pinned against his chest.
Aelfwyn crawled up onto the bank, collapsing at the top. Her limbs felt boneless and weak, and she was shivering. She heard an odd rattling noise and realized that it was her teeth chattering.
Leofric helped Aelfwyn to her feet, his eyes glowing in the moonlight. “Come on,” he panted. “We’ve got a lead on them for now, we don’t want to waste it.”
Aelfwyn nodded, trying to wring water out of her sodden robes. She had not thought it was possible to feel so miserable, so uncomfortable—so utterly exhausted. There was no point in complaining though. She knew what had to be done, even if she was starting to doubt she would last the rest of the night.
Leofric took hold of her hand and led the way south, away from the river. She stumbled after him. Her body felt as if it no longer belonged to her; she kept going out of sheer force of will alone.
Her companion spoke little during their flight south. Like her, Leofric fought exhaustion; his breathing gradually grew more ragged, his expression ever more grim.
By the time the first glow of dawn spilled across the sky to the east, both of them were stumbling as if drunk. They reached a copse of trees—ash and oaks—carpeting a shallow valley, where Leofric finally stopped. Under the sheltering boughs of an old oak, he let go of Aelfwyn’s hand and sank to the ground. The moment he let go of her, Aelfwyn’s remaining strength left her; it was as if he had been keeping her going, and now he had severed the physical connection exhaustion barreled into her like a charging boar.
Aelfwyn’s legs gave way under her, and she crumpled. Lying on her back, she watched dawn stretch its rosy fingers across the sky, which was turning from a deep indigo to a rich blue. Her pulse thudded in her chest, her blood roared in her ears, and she felt sick from exhaustion.
Eventually, she was able to glance right at where Leofric lay, spread-eagled like her, staring up at the lightening sky. His chest was heaving, his habit clinging to his lean, muscular frame. She could feel the heat emanating off him.
Feeling Aelfwyn’s gaze upon him, Leofric glanced across at her. He gave her an exhausted smile. “You did well,” he panted.
“I’m not sure how I managed it,” she admitted, her own voice coming in short gasps, “although I’m not certain I can get up again.”
“You will,” Leofric replied before pushing himself upright with a groan. “We have to keep moving.”
Aelfwyn rolled onto her belly, breathing in the scent of damp earth and crushed grass as she did so. “I’m sorry, Leofric,” she murmured. “You’re a hunted man because of me.”
Her companion gave a soft laugh, although the edge of bitterness to it made Aelfwyn glance up in surprise. Leofric was looking away from her; she saw tension in his shoulders.
Aelfwyn struggled upright, feeling wretched. “Are you angry with me?”
He glanced her way, his gaze widening. “No—of course not.” He paused then, breaking eye contact with her once more. “Don’t blame yourself for this. I knew what I was doing when I chose to help you escape. The price on my head now has nothing to do with you.”
Aelfwyn frowned, confused. “I don’t understand.”
Leofric shook his head. “It’s a tale for another time.” He got to his feet and dusted himself off. “I’ll tell it to you when we don’t have the king’s men breathing down our necks; when we’re dry, warm and safe.”
He reached down and pulled her up, smiling at her. Despite Aelfwyn’s exhaustion, despite the trauma of the past few days, his nearness affected her. He had a melting smile. The glint in his eyes—a blend of boyish mischief and purely masculine confidence—made the base of her belly flutter.
Discomfort swiftly followed. Aelfwyn gently extracted her hand from his and averted her gaze. Her reaction to him reminded her of how it was between men and women. The world was full of men like Ecgfrith who took what they wanted without asking, without caring of the consequences. If Leofric thought she was encouraging him, he might become such a man.
Aelfwyn stepped back from him and pulled her damp robes tightly around her. “You’re right,” she replied, her voice subdued. “We must press on.”
They walked south through the woodland, following what appeared to be a goat-track through the clusters of trees. Aelfwyn had no idea where they were, or how far they had traveled. She cast her mind back to her journey north with Aethelhild, to the towns they had passed.
“Where are we?” she eventually asked Leofric, who now walked at her side.
He glanced her way, blinking as he emerged from the fog of his own thoughts. “I’d guess that the tidal river we emerged from was the Tinanmuðe. If we continue due south, we’ll soon cross the Wear. After that, it’s a straight run down to Streonshalh.”
Aelfwyn nodded. She recalled crossing the Tinanmuðe on the way north, and the magnificent stone bridge that the Romans had left behind spanning the glittering water. They were farther south than she had realized.
“Do you think they know we’re traveling to Streonshalh?” she asked.
He shrugged. “It’s possible—but it’s still your safest choice.”
“And what about you?”
Leofric’s gaze held hers, the corner of his mouth quirking. “I’ll make sure I disappear.”
Something about the way he said that made Aelfwyn uneasy. “Where will you go?”
He shook his head and broke eye contact. “It’s safer for you not to know.”
Aelfwyn was mulling over his response, and wondering why he was being so secretive, when the snap of twigs up ahead caused her to halt mid-stride. Beside her, Leofric had done the same, his body tensing.
A moment later, a man riding a stocky bay horse emerged from the trees.
He was young—of a similar age to her and Leofric—dressed in a sleeveless leather vest and breeches, his feet clad in fur boots. Owing to the balmy weather he wore no cloak, and his brown hair was loose, curling over broad shoulders. Over one shoulder, the man carried a quiver of fletched arrows and a longbow.
Aelfwyn stopped breathing. At first, she had thought he was one of the king’s men, but he was coming from the wrong direction and was alone. Then she realized that he was probably the son of a local ealdorman or thegn out hunting.
Upon seeing the two of them on the path ahead, the man drew his horse to a halt. He had a heavy-featured face and a square jaw.
“Wes hāl!” Leofric called out, although Aelfwyn could hear the forced friendliness of his tone. Like her, this warrior’s presence alarmed him.
“Wes hāl,” the man responded in kind, his gaze sweeping over them. “What is this … a monk and a maid on the road together?” He urged his horse forward a few steps and drew up alongside them. “I’ve yet to see a stranger sight.”
Up close Aelfwyn saw that the man carried a seax—a long bladed knife—at his waist. Muscle corded his bare arms. He studied Aelfwyn first, and she grew rigid under
his hot stare. Then his gaze shifted to Leofric, and he frowned.
“I know you …”
Leofric raised an auburn eyebrow. “Do you? I don’t recall your face.”
The warrior continued to stare at him. “Aye, I do. You’re one of Wibert of Driffield’s sons.”
Leofric inclined his head. “Well met, although I still cannot say I know you.”
“Thunred,” the young man replied. “My father serves the ealdorman of Eoforwic. I remember seeing you drinking in the meadhall.”
Leofric did not reply right away, and watching him, Aelfwyn noted his face grew pale. “You’re a long way from home,” Leofric replied eventually.
“As are you,” Thunred answered. “I heard the Wibert’s youngest whelp got himself sent to Lindisfarena after he insulted the ealdorman.” Leofric did not reply to this jibe, and Thunred sneered. “You’re some way from the isle. And who’s this pretty thing? Monks are supposed to shun the company of women are they not?”
“I’ve not yet taken my vows,” Leofric replied through gritted teeth, “and I’m not forbidden to accompany women on journeys. I’m escorting this maid to Streonshalh Abbey, upon the orders of Prior Cuthbert.”
Thunred gave a rude snort, his gaze raking Aelfwyn from head to toe. “Too winsome for a nun. I bet you’ll give her a good plowing before you hand her over to the abbess—if you haven’t already.”
Aelfwyn started to feel ill at these words. Leofric gave Thunred a hard look. “I’m charged with Brunhild’s protection.”
“Brunhild?” Thunred’s gaze remained upon Aelfwyn, and he licked his lips. “How about you share her with me too before you go on your way?”
“Are your ears filled with mashed turnip?” Leofric snapped. “I told you—she’s under my protection.”
Thunred’s mouth curled. “Don’t be selfish. A monk won’t know how to service a woman properly. She needs a real man between her thighs.” Thunred unsheathed his seax and kicked his feet from the stirrups. “Stand back and learn, monk. This shouldn’t take long.”
Aelfwyn backed off, terror rising within her. “Get away from me,” she hissed.
Thunred laughed and swung down from the saddle. “Feisty, isn’t she?”
Leofric stepped in front of Aelfwyn, between her and Thunred. “The maid doesn’t sound keen,” he said, his voice quiet and cold. “I think it’s best you leave her be.”
Aelfwyn continued to back away, noting as she did so that Leofric had drawn a knife from the sheath he wore at his waist. It was a thin-bladed knife, one used for boning fish or whittling wood. It looked pitiful next to the gleaming seax-blade the warrior before him wielded.
“Out of the way.” Thunred made to shoulder Leofric aside.
Leofric slashed out with his knife, catching the warrior on the forearm, just above the leather bracer he wore. Thunred jumped aside, cursing foully. Blood flowed down his arm but the warrior paid it no mind. Instead he turned on Leofric, Aelfwyn forgotten.
“Maggot-spawn,” he growled. “I’ll gut you for that.”
Aelfwyn screamed as Thunred lunged at Leofric. The seax-blade flashed and Leofric ducked just in time to avoid being stabbed in the neck. Aelfwyn watched in horror as Leofric dodged another swipe.
Her companion was quick and strong but surely no match for the leather-clad warrior attacking him. She backed off further, torn between wanting to flee for her life and not wanting to abandon the man who had been her savior until now.
Despair crushed her ribs, making it difficult to breathe. They had come so far only to meet their doom now.
Chapter Fourteen
Truths
The fight ended as swiftly as it had begun.
One moment, Leofric had been dodging seax thrusts—one of which nicked his right shoulder—the next he leaped under his opponent’s guard and buried his boning knife to the hilt under his ribs. Thunred roared, toppling backward with Leofric on top of him.
Aelfwyn watched in horror as they struggled together for control of Thunred’s seax in a deathly embrace. Maddened by rage and pain, the warrior stabbed his weapon up at Leofric’s neck. Leofric had released his grip on the knife still embedded in his opponent’s torso and had taken hold of Thunred’s right wrist. Leofric’s face was hard, his expression savage; like his opponent, he was fighting to kill.
The seax blade inched closer to Leofric’s exposed throat. Aelfwyn covered her mouth with her hands as another scream rose within her. Thunred was fearsomely strong, even though Leofric was pushing his whole weight against him.
Then she watched Leofric reach down and twist the hilt of the knife embedded under Thunred’s ribs. The warrior yelled in agony, his grip slackening just for an instant.
That was all Leofric needed—he yanked his boning knife free before slamming it down into the base of Thunred’s neck.
Blood spurted, and the warrior’s body kicked and twitched under Leofric as Thunred died.
Aelfwyn had never seen a man die before. She had heard of folk stoning thieves to death in Rendlaesham, or the king taking a man’s head for treachery, but she had never actually seen a man take another’s life. It was far worse than she had ever imagined—far bloodier, far more brutal.
She sank to her knees and vomited, throwing up water and bile—the only contents in her stomach.
When the retching subsided, she looked up to see Leofric climbing off Thunred’s corpse. Leofric’s face was ashen and blood-splattered. He looked fey, dangerous; for the first time Aelfwyn was afraid of him.
“You killed him,” she whispered.
Leofric looked her way. His eyes had deepened to a brooding forest-green as his gaze met hers. “It was kill or be killed. He was going to slay me and then rape you.”
His words made Aelfwyn flinch. “But … how did you learn to fight like that? You’re … a monk.”
Leofric’s mouth twisted. “I had a life before Lindisfarena, Aelfwyn—and I didn’t end up on that isle by choice. All the men in my family are warriors. I’m the youngest of five sons. I had to learn how to defend myself as soon as I could walk or my brothers would have beaten me to a pulp.”
Aelfwyn grabbed fistfuls of her habit and clenched tightly to stop her hands from shaking. “So you’ve killed before?”
Leofric shook his head, before glancing down at where Thunred had stopped twitching. “He was my first.”
Silence stretched between them.
After a few moments, Leofric started to untie the girdle around his waist. Aelfwyn tensed as she watched him. “What are you doing?
He glanced up. “I’m going to swap my clothes for his. He has weapons and a horse—we need them both.”
Aelfwyn stared at him, horrified. “You’re going to wear the clothes of the man you’ve just killed?”
“Aye, and you and I are going to ride his horse.”
“But that’s …” Aelfwyn spluttered, struggling to find the words to describe just how vile this situation was.
Leofric met her eye, his own gaze hard. He was clearly losing patience with her. “This is life,” he snapped. “It’s not sweet and it’s not pretty—but before you look at me with scorn remember I’ve just saved both our lives.”
Aelfwyn held his gaze—both resenting him and fighting the truth of his words. Leofric said nothing more. He simply stood there watching her. After a few moments, Aelfwyn folded her arms across her chest and frowned. “What?”
His mouth curved. “I’m about to undress. If the sight of a naked man offends you then I suggest you look away.”
Aelfwyn’s face flamed. He was mocking her, and she hated him for it. Clenching her jaw to prevent herself from spitting at him, she turned her back while he undressed.
She waited while he shucked off his habit, pulled the dead man’s clothes from him, and donned them as his own. To distract herself, Aelfwyn listened to the sounds of the morning: the rise and fall of the dawn chorus, the whisper of the wind through the trees, and the rustle of Thunred’s horse cropping at g
rass nearby.
“You can turn around now.”
Aelfwyn swiveled to find Leofric standing behind her, buckling Thunred’s belt around his waist. The corpse at his feet now wore a monk’s habit. Dressed as a warrior, in blood-stained leather, Leofric looked like a different man entirely—taller, broader, and older. His close-cropped dark red hair gave him a lean, dangerous look. He noticed Aelfwyn’s stare and raised an eyebrow.
She scowled at him in response, daring him to mock her once more.
Aelfwyn helped Leofric drag Thunred into the bushes and cover him with branches. It was customary to burn a corpse, but a pyre would likely call their pursuers directly to them. There would be no burial for Thunred of Eoforwic.
Leofric threw the quiver of arrows and longbow over his shoulder and mounted the horse. Then he reached down and pulled Aelfwyn up so that she perched in front of him. The odor of leather, horse, and blood filled Aelfwyn’s nostrils. The feel of Leofric’s body against her back unnerved her. She sat rigid, clenching her jaw, as Leofric urged the horse forward.
This morning had changed how she saw Leofric.
Until their encounter with Thunred she had trusted him implicitly. He had been her savior and it had been easy enough not see that there was a man beneath the monk’s habit. Now it was as if she was traveling with a stranger. Dressed in leather with a seax strapped to his waist and a longbow on his back, he looked as he really was; a wild young man who had somehow been forced into a life that had not been his choosing.
Leofric turned the horse south and urged it on to a brisk canter. He rode well, and the horse responded to him in kind, lengthening its stride so that its gait was as smooth as possible for its riders. Aelfwyn’s back started to ache with the effort it was taking to sit rigid and not lean against him for support, but still she persisted.
Thunred had been a brutal reminder of what men were like, and how they were capable of behaving. She could not wait to reach Streonshalh and be free of them. For the first time, she understood Aethelhild’s desire for a life of seclusion away from the violence and cruelty of men.