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

by Jayne Castel

Beside Leofric, Aelfwyn was wrapped in a new fur mantle she had bought at market the day before. Her cheeks were flushed with cold and wine, her eyes bright as she admired the dancing flames.

  “Are you enjoying the festivities?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the roaring, crackling fire.

  “Aye.” She favored him with a warm smile. “I love this time of year. Every Winterfylleth my mother bakes honey and walnut tarts. I’m sure my parents will be enjoying one tonight.” Her gaze dimmed slightly as she finished this sentence.

  “You miss them,” Leofric observed.

  She looked up, her gaze meeting his. “Don’t you miss your family?”

  Leofric shrugged. “Not really,” he admitted. “I always felt as if I was getting under their feet—the youngest son is more of a nuisance than anything else in a family as large as mine.”

  She raised an eyebrow, as if she did not believe him but Leofric merely smiled back at her. A month had passed since the night he kissed her, and he had done his best to mend things between them.

  He no longer teased her—provoked her—like before. He had ceased giving her melting looks or brushing his hand against hers whenever she passed him something. It had been a game before—one he had enjoyed playing. He had treated his wooing of her like a hunt without taking into account just how badly the king had damaged her.

  For the first time, Leofric wished Ecgfrith of Northumbria was standing before him. He wanted to stab his sword into that whoreson’s belly and listen to his screams as he died, for what he had done to Aelfwyn.

  She had cried in his arms a long while that night, and he had been able to do nothing but comfort her. He had hoped the tears—the release—would do her good, and it seemed it had. The next day she had been a little subdued but calm. In the days that followed she gradually relaxed in his presence again.

  Leofric still ached for her, but now he kept his lust to himself. At night he lay on the rushes near the fire pit, wrapped in his cloak, and listened to the gentle sound of her breathing a few feet away. Occasionally he would torture himself by imagining her naked and pliant beneath him as he kissed and licked his way down her body—however, such thoughts soon became too difficult to bear so he ceased his fantasies.

  These days, he tried to think of other things while he waited for sleep to claim him. There was little point in such imaginings. Not when his touch repelled Aelfwyn so.

  “Would you like another cup?” He had noticed she had nearly finished her hot elderberry wine.

  Aelfwyn nodded and smiled, her lips stained red. “Yes, thank you.”

  He took her cup, careful to avoiding touching her. “I’ll return soon then.”

  Aelfwyn watched Leofric leave her side and wander a few yards away, to where the owner of the meadhall, Cynn, filled folk’s cups with wine from a great steaming cauldron. She watched Cynn and Leofric chat together—they had become fast friends since she and Leofric had come to live at Lincylene.

  Cynn was a broad, balding man of around thirty winters, who had a feisty wife and a brood of four daughters to contend with at home. Leofric often joked about how Cynn liked to escape to the meadhall at every opportunity to escape his female-dominated household. His wife, Gytha, was by his side tonight. She was a stout woman with a fair face, startling green eyes and wiry auburn hair. She said something to Leofric and then laughed when he responded, her eyes twinkling with mirth.

  Leofric certainly knew how to charm women, Aelfwyn reflected. She was not blind to the fact that wherever they went, maids, wives, and crones all made eyes at him. She watched now as Leofric bid Cynn and Gytha good eve and made his way back toward her, taking care not to spill the steaming cups of wine he carried.

  Two young women passed by him. One of them—a beauty with a tumbling mane of dark golden hair—stopped to greet him. The girl tossed her hair and pushed out her plump bosom as she talked to Leofric. She blushed when he flashed her a grin, bid her good eve, and continued on his way.

  A white-hot blade of jealousy cut through Aelfwyn’s gut, catching her off guard. The desire to leap at the girl and rake her fingernails down her face shocked Aelfwyn to the core.

  Where had that come from?

  She had no right to be jealous, not when Leofric was not hers. Not when she had shunned his advances.

  That girl had done nothing to her. Aelfwyn and Leofric only played at being man and wife for the benefit of the townsfolk. If he wished to seek out female company elsewhere, it was nothing to do with her. Yet the thought made her belly tie itself in knots.

  “What ails you?” Leofric asked when he reached her, holding out a cup of wine. “You’re flushed.”

  “I’m just standing too close to the fire,” Aelfwyn answered. “Let’s move back a bit.”

  He nodded, and they took a few steps back. On the other side of the fire, near the king’s seat, a lad started to play a jaunty tune upon a bone whistle. The maids who had flirted with Leofric earlier started dancing; their unbound hair gleaming in the firelight.

  Jealousy coiled in the pit of Aelfwyn’s stomach once more, but she did her best to ignore it. This was a new side to her character; one she did not like much.

  “Cynn had some news.” Leofric bent close, his voice low.

  Aelfwyn turned, tensing when she saw the serious look on his face. “What is it?”

  “He was at Torksey market yesterday—there were men there, Northumbrians, asking questions.”

  Despite the warmth of the nearby fire, Aelfwyn went cold. “Ecgfrith’s men?” she whispered, dreading the answer.

  Leofric nodded, his face now grim. “They were asking folk if they’d seen a young woman named Aelfwyn with pale blonde hair—possibly traveling on her own, or with a monk.” Leofric’s mouth thinned as he finished this sentence.

  Not for the first time Aelfwyn was relieved they both went by different names in Lincylene.

  “Are we safe here?” Aelfwyn’s fingers clenched around the cup of wine. She did not want to leave Lincylene, not when she was just starting to feel at home. She did not want to start running again.

  “I don’t know,” Leofric replied. “I didn’t expect them to track us this far. I thought they’d travel into Mercia instead.” He paused then, his gaze shifting to the dancing flames, his expression turning pensive. “Maybe we should leave—go further south.”

  Aelfwyn’s stomach cramped. “Does Cynn suspect it’s us they’re looking for?”

  Leofric shook his head. “He was sharing gossip with me, nothing else. We aren’t using our real names. I arrived here dressed as a warrior, not a monk. There are other women with the same hair color as you; I don’t think he made the connection.”

  Relief made Aelfwyn’s knees sag beneath her. “Did anyone help the men searching for us?”

  “He says not,” Leofric admitted, “but I don’t want to risk them catching up with us—not now. We should go, before the first snows.”

  Aelfwyn reached out, her hand fastening around his forearm. Leofric glanced up, surprised, for they had not touched in a month … not since that night he had kissed her. His skin was warm under her palm but she ignored it—ignored how still he had suddenly gone.

  “Please, Leo,” she began, her fingers digging into his flesh. “Don’t make me leave here, not yet. The snows will arrive soon enough. Ecgfrith’s men will stop looking for us. Let’s wait till spring.”

  “What if they come to Lincylene asking the same questions?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Do you think no one will tell them that there’s a woman who matches that description living in the woods nearby—a newcomer to the town.”

  “You said it yourself, there are plenty of women matching my description,” she countered, “and no one has seen a monk.”

  His gaze hooded, and he regarded her silently for a few moments. “Are you willing to take that risk?” he asked.

  She held his gaze and nodded.

  Leofric exhaled sharply. She could see he was wrestling with his better judge
ment. “I don’t like it,” he admitted, “but I can see you’re going to fight me on this.”

  She relaxed her death-grip on his arm. “Does this mean we can stay?”

  “Aye—but both of us must be wary from now on. I’ll not stop looking over my shoulder until we’re far from Ecgfrith’s reach.”

  Leofric was pensive during the walk back home. Away from the roaring Winterfylleth fire, the night was cold. A hunter’s moon rode high in the pitch sky, and a frost was starting to settle; his boots crunched over it as he walked.

  Aelfwyn also said little. He glanced across at her once or twice, but she had pulled up her fur-lined hood, and he could not see her face.

  He was not sure he had done the right thing in giving in to her. His instincts—his gut—told him to run, to get as far away from here as possible. But Aelfwyn’s pleading gaze, the way she had so desperately gripped his arm, had swayed him. Maybe she was right; they were safe enough here for the time being.

  He hoped so.

  Yet Cynn’s tale worried him. Ecgfrith’s men should not still be searching for them. They should have given up by now and returned to Bebbanburg with their tails between their legs. The king was being more persistent than Leofric had anticipated, and this worried him.

  Ecgfrith had not taken well to losing his wife’s comely handmaid—and he was determined to find her.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Eatta’s Price

  Aelfwyn bent and collected an armload of twigs before carrying them over to the large woolsack she had brought with her. She stood in a woodland glade, surrounded by towering beech trees. It was a grey, chill day with spots of rain in the air, but she had returned to the woods with Leofric after their noon meal to bring back kindling.

  Aelfwyn glanced up at the darkening sky and frowned. The days grew so short this time of year. The air had the dank smell of coming snow.

  A few yards away Leofric worked on the latest tree he had felled. Shirtless, his bare torso gleaming with sweat, he prepared the trunk by sawing off branches. Despite herself, Aelfwyn paused a moment to admire him. Leofric had been well-built before their arrival here, but the hard physical work had broadened his shoulders even further and toned his arms and back into hard muscle. Her gaze lingered on the planes of his smooth chest before she turned away, heart pounding.

  Stop it. One of these days he’ll catch you.

  Good to his word, Leofric had done as she had pleaded and now treated her more like a sister. Initially she had been relieved, for she had not been able to cope with his raw male interest. It was now nearly two moon cycles later; Yule and Mother Night—the shortest night of the year—was approaching.

  These days Aelfwyn felt differently. There was a restlessness in her; an odd sensation she could not name. Leofric had given her what she wanted. Why then did she feel a hollowness in her gut whenever she looked at him? Why did she stare at him when he was not looking?

  Women are as fickle as we are foolish, she thought disparagingly. Even when we’re given what we asked for we’re never happy.

  Aelfwyn gathered up another armful of sticks and marched back across to the jute woolsack before dumping them inside. The sack was nearly full; two more armloads should do it and then she would drag it home.

  She was just returning to the piles of branches, leaves and twigs littering the clearing, when a group of leatherclad men emerged from the trees.

  Aelfwyn froze.

  Her first thought was that King Ecgfrith’s men had finally found her. Then she realized that she recognized some of the men’s faces; she had seen them on her trips to Lincylene. They were the King of Lindesege’s men. She recognized Waric—Leofric’s friend—at the head of the group.

  “Lenred,” she called out, only just remembering not to use Leofric’s real name. “We have visitors.”

  Leofric straightened up, wiping sweat off his brow as he did so. Upon seeing the approaching warriors he lowered his saw, although Aelfwyn noted that he kept tight hold of it.

  “Wes hāl!” he hailed the men, his tone cheerful.

  Aelfwyn remained still, not daring to move. She watched Leofric step away from the felled tree and walk towards the newcomers.

  “Waric,” he greeted his friend, a grin lighting his face. “I never see you away from the meadhall—what brings you into the woods?”

  Waric’s gaze was serious when it met Leofric’s, and he did not smile. “The king wants to see you.”

  Leofric’s grin faded. “Why’s that?”

  “That’s his business,” another warrior replied. He was a short and broad man with a badly pockmarked face.

  Leofric raised an eyebrow. “Well as you can see I’m in the middle of something. Tell the king I’ll visit his hall once I’ve finished work for the day.”

  “This isn’t a request,” the warrior continued. “The king demands you come with us now.”

  Leofric’s gaze met the man’s and held. Aelfwyn saw the tension in his shoulders and wondered if he was considering denying them. It would be foolish to do so. There were ten armed warriors—too many to fight off with a handsaw.

  “Come, Lenred.” Waric spoke up, stepping forward. “The sooner you do this the sooner you can get back to work.”

  “Aye.” The pox-scarred warrior grinned before glancing across at where Aelfwyn stood. “Your lady wife is coming too—the king wants to see you both.”

  Aelfwyn and Leofric walked up Steep Hill toward Lincylene’s Great Hall. The building loomed before them, its steeply gabled roof a dark outline against the dull sky.

  A few folk thronged the street, shopping or going about their business while there was still daylight. They cast curious glances toward the couple flanked by ten of the king’s men, who walked past.

  Aelfwyn glanced across at Leofric, hoping to catch his gaze, but he was staring straight ahead, his face unreadable. She wanted to speak to him—to have his assurance everything would be all right—yet with the king’s men right behind them it would be unwise to say anything.

  Her mind whirled, concocting possible scenarios in her head about why King Eatta had summoned them—each more terrifying than the last. All she could think of was that the king had discovered who they were and was about to send them both north to Ecgfrith.

  Her knees almost buckled with terror at this thought.

  At the top of the hill, they reached Market Square. The wide space was empty at this time of day. Only a stray dog sat gnawing a bone in the shadow of the magnificent church that flanked one side of the open space. Built of local stone and timber with a strawthatch roof, the church made Eatta’s hall opposite appear an oversized barn in comparison.

  Aelfwyn and Leofric climbed the steps to the Great Hall of Lincylene, following Waric and the pox-scarred warrior. They passed the two spearmen guarding the entrance and went inside.

  The interior of King Eatta’s hall reminded Aelfwyn of Rendlaesham’s famed ‘Golden Hall’, although this one was a lot smaller, and far less finely decorated. Even so it was like stepping inside the ribcage of a great serpent. Huge oak beams, blackened by countless fires, stretched across the high ceiling. Two long fire pits, circled in stone, dominated the interior, and a wooden high seat rose at the far end. The hall was busy at this time of day: servants chopped turnips and rolled out piecrust on long tables, women worked at distaffs or sewed tunics, men sat drinking and playing knucklebones near the firepit, and children wrestled on the rushes.

  The warriors cut a path through them all and led Aelfwyn and Leofric straight up to the foot of the high seat.

  King Eatta—blond and handsome but with a hard stare—sat upon an ornate wooden chair. Aelfwyn had seen Ealdwulf of the East Angles and Ecgfrith of Northumbria sit upon similar seats, although neither of those chairs had armrests of intricately carved serpent heads as this one did. The serpent mouths gaped open, revealing needle-sharp teeth.

  Eatta’s wife sat silently at his side. She was a tall, striking woman with thick red hair and heavily l
idded green eyes. Two young daughters clung to her skirts. Her pretty face was a mask of boredom as she surveyed the two individuals her husband had summoned. Retainers—men and women finely dressed in embroidered tunics with squirrel-fur trims and wearing amber and bronze jewelry—hovered nearby, their faces eager.

  Aelfwyn and Leofric stopped before the high seat. Aelfwyn quickly dropped her eyes to the rush-strewn floor and hoped Leofric was doing the same.

  “You summoned me, milord.” Leofric greeted Eatta.

  “Aye, Lenred Woodcutter,” the king replied. He had a deep, powerful voice; that of a man who was used to being obeyed. “I hear that you’ve taken up residence in the abandoned hut near the River Witham—that you’ve been felling my trees.”

  The knots in Aelfwyn’s stomach tightened. At last—here was the reason King Eatta had called them to him.

  Although part of her was relieved that his summons had nothing to do with King Ecgfrith, the rest of her filled with dread. They had felt so welcome here—only things were about to change.

  “I have been felling trees,” Leofric admitted cautiously, “however, I did not realize I had to ask permission, sire.”

  Eatta watched him steadily. The king had midnight blue eyes and they were unnervingly keen and sharp.

  “This is my kingdom,” he said finally. “My land. You should have come to me upon making your home here. You should have gained my consent.”

  Leofric did not reply immediately. A tense silence stretched out between the two men—and it was Aelfwyn who broke it. She rushed forward and fell to her knees before the high seat.

  “Milord, please forgive us. My husband didn’t know he had to ask permission, but we shall ask it now.”

  “Aeaba,” Leofric hissed. “Get up!”

  Aelfwyn ignored him. Instead she looked up, her gaze meeting Eatta’s. “Milord, we only wish to make an honest living in our new home. It was never our intention to steal from you.”

  The king held her gaze for a moment longer before he looked once more at Leofric. “Your pretty young wife has a lot to say for herself,” he said before giving Leofric a wolfish grin. “How about I give her to my men, and we find another use for that sweet mouth?”