by Jayne Castel
Aelfwyn’s mouth watered when she saw a loaf of fresh bread, salted pork, and a chunk of cheese sitting next to two cups of what smelled like ale. She pushed herself off the pallet and sat down on the floor next to Leofric.
“My new friend Cynn can talk,” Leofric said, tearing off a chunk of bread and passing it to her. “This cost me our last thrymsa but it was worth it.”
Aelfwyn stuffed the bread into her mouth, followed by a chunk of cheese. She had never tasted food so good—still they now had no coin left.
“What will we do?” she asked when she had swallowed her mouthful. “How will we survive?”
Leofric gave her the roguish grin that she had come to know well; one that usually meant he had news for her. “Cynn tells me that there is a hut in the woods not far from town. It sits near the banks of the river and until a year ago belonged to a woodcutter. The man lost his wife and children to fever and turned strange afterward. One day he left home and never returned. The meadhall keeper says the hut is in need of repair but it is livable. He insists that no one has claimed the dwelling and that Lincylene is in need of a new woodcutter.”
Aelfwyn held his gaze, realization dawning. “You mean we can live there?”
“Aye, for the bitter months at least, while we decide what to do next.”
Relief flooded through Aelfwyn, making her feel weak. She had not realized how much tension she had been carrying until this moment.
Leofric held her gaze, his expression expectant. “What do you think?”
Aelfwyn grinned back at him and raised her cup of ale in a toast. “I think that’s the best news I’ve had in a long while.”
A crisp morning dawned over Lincylene as Leofric and Aelfwyn rode out of town. The smoke from cook fires stained the sky; the aroma of baking bread wafted through the narrow streets.
Leofric nodded to a merchant who led a goat-drawn cart full of turnips into town. No doubt, the man was heading for the market. The meadhall owner had told him that there was a busy market evening morning at the top of the hill, in between the church and the King of Lindesege’s Great Hall. Leofric would have liked to have stopped at the market this morning, but with their purses now empty there was little point.
Aelfwyn sat before him. Her pale hair was piled high on her head, revealing her long, slender neck. It was a different style for her, now that she was pretending to be a wife, and one that made her look older. Leofric focused on the nape of her neck, resisting the urge to lean forward and kiss her gently there.
How would she react?
Badly, most likely.
Traveling with her had become exquisite torture. He was not teasing the day before when she had asked him why he had stayed on at Streonshalh. He had not wanted to admit it to himself, but the longer they journeyed together the harder it became for him to deny his true feelings.
He wanted her.
Sitting this close to Aelfwyn, he could smell the sweetness of her skin and feel her warmth and softness pressed against him. It caused his insides to knot in a wanting so strong it took all his self-control not to pull her against him and bury his face in her neck.
She was lovely—so poised, warm, and gentle. He longed to put a smile on her face, to make her forget her past. He wanted to lie with her and teach her how it should be between a man and woman. He yearned to worship her naked body, to—
Stop it.
Leofric shook his head and gave himself a mental slap. His groin now ached and he inched himself backward slightly, so that Aelfwyn would not feel his rock-hard cock.
He tried to think about things that would deflate his erection—of a rotting sheep’s carcass or of Prior Cuthbert sitting on the privy—anything to distract himself from the young woman sitting in front of him.
Leofric had never known frustration like this before. Before his exile to Lindisfarena, women had been easy to come by. Not one had ever denied him.
Only Aelfwyn. She had built an invisible wall between them that he was finding near impossible to breach. He knew why, and he understood her reticence. He just hoped that with time she might trust him, might let down her guard.
For the first time in his life, he was willing to wait.
Chapter Twenty-three
The Woodcutter’s Hut
The woodcutter’s hut lay around ten furlongs from Lincylene, near the banks of the River Witham. Towering beeches protected the cottage from the east winds, and a gnarled, wild cherry tree grew in the unkempt yard outside the hut.
The small wattle and daub structure was in a worse state than Leofric had anticipated. It was incredible how quickly buildings deteriorated once no one lived in them. Homes needed owners or they went back to nature. The wattle door hung off the hinges, and the shutters of its single window were missing, no doubt taken by locals for their own homes.
Leofric swung down from Windræs and helped Aelfwyn dismount. He then tied the horse to the broken fence before leading the way inside.
It was little more than an empty shell. Looters had stripped what few possessions the woodcutter had left behind, leaving little more than shards of shattered pottery, a broken work table, and a scattered collection of cooking utensils—most of them warped or broken.
Leofric cast a glance at Aelfwyn. She was used to the likes of the Great Tower of Bebbanburg; this hut must look pitiful in comparison. “I’m sorry,” he said, pulling a face. “I know it’s not much.”
She surprised him by smiling. “It’s a roof over our heads and with a bit of work it’ll be a home.”
“Really, you’re not disappointed?”
She laughed, and he realized it was the first time she had done so in his presence. “Of course not. I’m not some pampered lady who is only happy in a Great Hall. A home this size suits me just as well, if not better.”
He raised his eyebrows.
Her mouth quirked. “Why the surprise?”
“Because you’re not like any woman I’ve ever met.”
She snorted. “Then you’ve not met many women—not all of us care for finery and gold.” With that she took off her cloak and hung it behind the door. “By the time I’ve finished with this hut you won’t recognize it.”
Aelfwyn climbed up the riverbank carrying an armload of rushes. Behind her, the gentle waters of the River Witham flowed by. It was starting to rain; dark clouds gathered overhead and a brisk wind blew in from the northeast.
Humming gently to herself, she crossed the grassy expanse between the river and the edge of the woodland. A few more paces took her inside the hut. A spartan but clean and welcoming interior greeted her.
In the ten days she and Leofric had lived here, they had both worked from dawn till dusk to make the hut comfortable. Winter was drawing closer; they needed to ensure their dwelling was watertight and warm before then. The air smelled of lavender, wood smoke—and rabbit stew.
Aelfwyn had scattered lavender amongst the fresh rushes on the floor, to give the interior a welcoming scent. The smoke came from the fire pit in the center of the one-room dwelling. Leofric had fixed the roof, leaving a slit in the top for smoke to escape. Even so, the interior did get a little smoky. A dented iron pot—one of the few items she had managed to salvage—filled with simmering stew hung above the embers.
Aelfwyn crossed to the far side of the hut, her feet crunching on the rushes. There, she laid out her fresh rushes on a pile she had been adding to over the past couple of days. They made a good, if slightly prickly, sleeping pallet. With the addition of a few furs, it would soon be very comfortable to sleep upon.
Rain started thudding on the sod roof and Aelfwyn glanced up. It was the first rain since Leofric had patched it—they would soon see if there were any leaks. The rain grew heavier, thundering down upon the roof. She went to the tiny window and glanced out. The deluge was lashing across the land in great sheets, stippling the surface of the river like hundreds of bone needles.
Leofric was out in that weather—she hoped he had found shelter.
&n
bsp; Reluctantly, she closed the shutters, shutting out the rich smell of the rain and casting the interior of the dwelling in shadow. Then she lit the collection of cressets that Leofric had fastened to the walls, and went to tend the stew. She was just adding some dried herbs to it when the door to the hut flew open, and Leofric stepped inside. He brought a gust of wind with him that caused the cressets to gutter and the coals in the hearth to glow red.
“God’s bones, it’s foul out there.”
Aelfwyn turned to find him dripping from head to foot, his hair plastered darkly across his scalp, his face gleaming with rain. In his right hand he held up a dead hare by its back feet.
“Well done, Leo.” She beamed at him and rushed forward to retrieve the hare. It was magnificent. The meat would last them for days, and she could use the hare’s soft pelt to add to the fur wall hanging she was making.
“At your service, M’lady.” He smiled back, closing the door firmly behind him. He then sniffed the air. “Something smells good.”
“It’s almost ready. But get yourself dry first—you’re dripping water everywhere.”
Aelfwyn turned her back on him to give Leofric some privacy and went to retrieve a drying cloth; a coarse strip of homespun from the monk’s robe she had once worn.
She retrieved the cloth, turned around—and stopped short.
Leofric had stripped off his sodden leather vest and linen undershirt. He was now in the process of unfastening his breeches.
“Wait,” Aelfwyn squeaked.
He glanced up, his gaze meeting hers. “What?” he replied innocently.
Too innocently—he knew exactly what he was doing.
“Take this first.” Aelfwyn hurried across to him and thrust the drying cloth into his hands. She then turned her back on him and went to the work table, busying herself with tidying it up, even though the scrubbed surface was already spotless.
She could feel Leofric’s gaze burning into her back, and she silently cursed him. He knew the effect he had on her and enjoyed seeing her squirm. Time after time, her body betrayed her.
Aelfwyn blamed Leofric.
Most of the time he was excellent company. Leofric took each day with a matter-of-fact practicality and good humor that made him easy to live with. But then he would ruin the camaraderie between them with one heated look.
A look that set her blood on fire, that made her loins melt. A look that made her want to throw herself into his arms and devour him.
Aelfwyn fought that sensation now. The sight of him half-naked, his wet skin gleaming in the flickering light from the fire pit and cressets, made her ache with desire.
This was what happened when a man and woman spent too long in each other’s company. Her gratitude had deepened into something else—something that both feared and excited her.
Something she could not control.
When she had composed herself, Aelfwyn turned around once more to find him sitting by the fire pit. His clothing hung, steaming nearby. Leofric wore little more than a loincloth of homespun around his waist. However, now that she had mastered her emotions, Aelfwyn managed to keep her expression neutral.
She dished them both up stew, into wooden bowls that Leofric had whittled shortly after their arrival here.
Leofric ate hungrily. “The stew’s good,” he complimented her, holding out the bowl for another ladleful.
Aelfwyn smiled. He was being kind—they both knew she was not a brilliant cook, although the fact they had little in the way of vegetables or seasonings to make her stews more interesting did not help.
“I sold my first load of wood this afternoon in town,” he announced as he dug into his second bowl of stew. “We now have two thrymsas in our purse.”
Aelfwyn smiled. “Really?”
“Aye, I harnessed Windræs up and managed to drag a log of beech into the market square. I’d only just recovered my breath when a man offered to buy it from me. He’s building a hall for his family and has put in an order for five more logs over the coming days.”
Aelfwyn clapped her hands together and gave a squeal of joy. Finally things were going right. She liked Lincylene. The town’s folk had proved friendly, accepting the young woodcutter and his wife into their midst without question.
For the first time in her life, Aelfwyn felt as if she truly belonged.
“It’s good to see you happy, Aelfwyn.”
She glanced across the hearth to see Leofric watching her. He wore that enigmatic half-smile she had come to know well. Of its own accord, her gaze dipped to his naked chest, taking in the smooth lightly tanned skin and broad shoulders. Her mouth went dry, and she glanced down at her half-eaten bowl of stew.
“I appreciate everything you’re doing for us,” she said quietly, her exuberance dimming. “You work hard.”
“As do you.”
She did not reply, her body going hot under the intensity of his gaze. It suddenly felt too stuffy inside the hut, too cramped for the pair of them. Panic fluttered up inside Aelfwyn. If it were not for the pouring rain, she would have fled outside.
She heard the scrape of his stool and the sound of him padding barefoot across the rush-strewn floor toward her. Panic flowered into fear.
Aelfwyn leaped to her feet. “I’d better wash up.”
Suddenly he was there, towering above her—too close, too male, too attractive by half. “Aelfwyn—”
“Leo, please … I—”
He did not reply but instead gathered her close against him, his hands cupping the back of her head as his mouth slanted across hers.
Aelfwyn’s breathing stopped.
The feel of his hard body against hers, the musk of his warm skin, and the softness of his lips on hers caused time to stand still. He parted her lips with his tongue and a hunger unlike anything she had ever known exploded deep within her. She gasped. Leofric groaned in response, his mouth devouring hers, and he pulled her hard against him so that the length of their bodies pressed together.
Then Aelfwyn felt the hard column of his arousal pressed against her belly.
In an instant the melting torpor of desire dissolved.
He was a man. He would hurt her—humiliate her.
With a cry, Aelfwyn twisted free of Leofric. She staggered back, knocking over the stool she had been sitting on, nearly sending it flying into the fire.
“Aelfwyn …” Leofric’s eyes were wide, and she saw alarm in their hazel-green depths. He reached out for her.
“No.” She backed away from him. “I can’t … I just can’t.”
“But I would never hurt you.”
Tears blurred her vision, and she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter what you say. I’m scarred—deep inside where no one can see. Ecgfrith stripped everything away.”
His gaze darkened. “You give that bastard too much power.”
Aelfwyn turned away from him, crying freely now. “You don’t understand,” she gasped.
Moments passed as she struggled to contain her sobs. When Leofric spoke again, she realized he was right behind her.
“Aelfwyn, I’m sorry.” His voice was low, husky with regret. “The last thing I want is to frighten you. I let my instincts get the better of me.”
Aelfwyn nodded, her breathing now coming in ragged gulps. She was close to unravelling completely, something she had not done since she had thrown herself into the waves near Bebbanburg.
“Come—I’m sorry,” he repeated softly, before gently taking hold of her shoulders and turning her toward him. She glanced up at his face and saw his stricken expression. “It breaks me in-two to see you so upset and know I’m the cause.”
“It’s not your fault,” Aelfwyn hiccoughed. “It’s me, I’m broken.”
“Hush.” He pulled her gently against his chest, cradling against her as if she were made of fragile eggshell. “You’re still healing, and I’m a blundering oaf. Please forgive me.”
Aelfwyn leaned into the hard wall of his chest, enfolded by the strength and warmth of
his arms, and felt the last of her restraint unravel. The tide she had been holding back for too long broke free, and she wept.
Chapter Twenty-four
Autumn Fires
Autumn slowly settled over Britannia. The trees’ cloaks of green changed to red and gold, before the leaves started to fall. The days grew shorter, the nights drew in, and the air grew crisp with the promise of winter.
Winterfylleth arrived. The folk of Lincylene lit bonfires outside the town walls to celebrate the night of the dead; the night their ancestors walked abroad once more. They left candles burning on their windowsills and plates of cakes near the hearth. It was an old practice—to ward off evil spirits and welcome the friendly ones—and a tradition Leofric had grown up with.
He brought Aelfwyn with him to the festivities. They ate apple cake drenched in honey and drank hot elderberry wine, watching folk dance around the fire.
Leofric’s gaze traveled over the crowd of revelers, their faces ruddy with cold, and he felt a sense of belonging wash over him when he recognized many of them. He was starting to get to know folk. His friend Waric, whom he often saw in Cynn’s meadhall, waved as he walked past. Waric, a man the same age as Leofric with short brown hair and keen grey eyes, had his arm around his young wife’s shoulders. Catching Waric’s eye, Leofric grinned and waved back.
Leofric spotted the King of Lindesege on the edge of the revelers. Seated upon a wooden dais with his pretty red-haired wife beside him, King Eatta nursed a cup of mead while he surveyed his subjects. Still in the prime of life—no older than thirty winters—the king was tall and broad-shouldered with a mane of thick blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Leofric watched Eatta laugh at something one of his retainers had said, and noticed that despite the mirth on his handsome face, no humor reached his sharp gaze.