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

by Jayne Castel

  A stunned silence fell in the hall. A moment later some of Eatta’s retainers started to snigger. Face burning, Aelfwyn struggled up off her knees and rejoined Leofric. One glance at his face told her he was livid. He held the king’s gaze, his own hard.

  “Leave my wife out of this,” he said, his voice low and controlled. “She was merely asking for your consent—there was no need to humiliate her.”

  Eatta raised an eyebrow, an amused look upon his face. “What kind of man lets his wife speak on his behalf. If you want permission ask for it yourself.”

  Leofric inhaled slowly. “Do we have your consent?”

  “I’m your king,” Eatta drawled. “Address me as such.”

  “Do we have your consent, sire?”

  Long moments passed before Eatta replied. “Yes you do … but there is a price for my clemency.”

  Leofric did not speak, silently awaiting the king’s judgement. Aelfwyn stared down at her feet, blinking back tears. She just wanted to be away from this unfriendly hall and its cruel, rock-hewn king.

  “Give me your money purse,” Eatta ordered softly.

  Leofric undid the leather purse he carried on his belt and handed it to Waric. The warrior stepped up onto the high seat and gave the pouch to the king. Eatta poured the bag’s contents out onto his broad palm.

  “There’s a goodly amount of thrymsas here,” he mused, weighing the gold in his palm. “The folk of Lincylene have been generous with you.”

  Aelfwyn felt sick as she watched the king put only one thrymsa back in the pouch and return it to Waric. The remaining coins he handed to one of his retainers. That was the only shillings they had, and Leofric had worked hard for every piece of it. Anger flickered in the pit of her belly, and at that moment she hated King Eatta of Lindesege.

  “Be grateful I have left you with one thrymsa to your name,” Eatta told Leofric, “for it’s more than you deserve.”

  Leofric said nothing, although Aelfwyn saw a nerve flicker in his jaw. He was hanging on to his temper by a thred.

  “I see anger in your eyes, Woodcutter,” the king said finally. “My price is clearly not high enough.”

  “It’s more than enough,” Leofric finally managed between gritted teeth, “and I thank you for the lesson, sire.”

  Eatta gave a soft laugh. “You’re not thankful at all … and for that I will have to make an example of you.”

  Aelfwyn went cold. She looked up and saw the king’s dark blue eyes dancing with pleasure. He was giving Leofric a challenging look, as if daring him to lose his temper and sign his own death writ.

  “If we didn’t need a woodcutter locally, I’d take your hand as punishment. Instead I condemn you to a public flogging tomorrow at dawn.” Eatta smiled then, although there was no warmth in the expression. “I will wield the rod myself.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The Flogging

  “Please, milord!” Aelfwyn rushed forward, only to be hauled back by one of the king’s men. “I beg you not to punish him. He’s done nothing to earn it!”

  “Keep a leash on your wife, Woodcutter,” Eatta drawled, dismissing Aelfwyn with a wave of his hand, “or I really will give her to my men.”

  This caused a rumble of coarse masculine laughter to erupt around them. Heart pounding, Aelfwyn shrugged herself free of the warrior’s bruising grasp.

  "Don’t touch me,” she hissed. With a lecherous grin, the man held up his hands and backed off.

  Aelfwyn glanced over at Leofric and saw that he had gone pale. However, he looked even angrier than earlier; the king’s harsh sentence had not cowed him.

  As if remembering that Aelfwyn stood next to him, Leofric shifted his gaze from Eatta then and looked at her. His gaze softened for a moment and the corner of his mouth quirked—as he tried to smile and failed. He opened his mouth to say something to her, but the king cut him off.

  “Chain the woodcutter to the wall in here overnight,” Eatta ordered his men. “Let’s see if that doesn’t humble him.”

  The men dragged Leofric over to the eastern wall of the Great Hall. Aelfwyn followed close behind. They hauled Leofric up onto the platform that ran around the edge of the hall and shackled his wrists to heavy iron chains that hung there. The men laughed at him as he struggled in the iron manacles.

  “Wriggle all you want,” one of them jeered, “but you won’t be getting free until dawn.”

  Leofric spat at the warrior in response, but this only increased the group’s mirth.

  “You won’t be so cocky in the morning,” the pox-scarred warrior told him. “Not after the king flogs your back to ribbons.”

  They left them then, returning to their cups of mead and the warmth of the firepit. Only Waric lingered, his gaze lingering on Leofric for a moment, his face conflicted.

  “Go on then,” Leofric hissed at him. “There’s no point in looking sorry now.”

  Waric held his gaze for a moment before dipping his head and walking away.

  Aelfwyn stood next to Leofric, her fur cloak pulled tight about her. She waited until they were alone, until the folk inside the hall turned their attention elsewhere, before she spoke.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I thought I was helping—but I just made things worse.”

  Leofric’s gaze met hers. “It wasn’t your fault,” he replied wearily. “The king wanted an excuse to humiliate me. I shouldn’t have lost my temper—I played right into his hands.”

  Anguish filled Aelfwyn. She had no idea how the king would treat Leofric at dawn. Would he give him a few cracks across the back with a rod, merely for show in front of the townsfolk, or would he inflict as much suffering as possible? Sick with dread, she met Leofric’s gaze once more.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he said softly. “This hall is a den of wolves. You won’t be safe if you remain overnight.”

  Aelfwyn shook her head. “I’m not leaving you.”

  Leofric’s gaze turned hard. “You must. Go to Cynn and Gytha for the night—they will take care of you.”

  Aelfwyn fought back tears. She did not want to abandon Leofric here, but she knew he spoke the truth. The king’s words had frightened her; she believed he would let his men have her if either she or Leofric provoked him once more.

  With a sigh of defeat she bowed her head. “Very well. I will see you at dawn.”

  Aelfwyn left him, making her way across the rush-strewn floor, chin up and shoulders back. Heckling voices and catcalls followed her but she ignored them.

  Outside, a grey dusk was settling over the town. The snow that had been threatening all day was now falling; large fat snowflakes floated down silently from a colorless sky. Alone in the square with snowflakes fluttering down like delicate white rose petals, Aelfwyn hurriedly wiped away the tears that blurred her vision and made her way across the square in the direction of Lincylene’s meadhall.

  Dawn crept over the town, revealing a world blanketed in pristine white. The snow was still falling although it had diminished to a mere flutter.

  Aelfwyn stood next to Cynn and Gytha in the middle of Market Square. Her stomach was in knots as she watched a crowd gather around them.

  “Carrion crows,” she muttered, angry they had come to watch a man suffer. “Haven’t they got better things to do?”

  “It seems not,” Gytha replied. The older woman linked her arm through Aelfwyn’s, and she gave her a gentle squeeze. “It’s the way of folk to enjoy watching someone else’s humiliation rather than their own.”

  “But I thought people liked us here.”

  “They do, and in a few days time they’ll forget this even happened.”

  “I won’t,” Aelfwyn replied between clenched teeth, her gaze sweeping over their eager faces.

  Gytha did not answer. She only gave Aelfwyn’s arm another squeeze, reassuring her that she was not alone and that she herself was not here to watch Leofric flogged. Aelfwyn leaned against her, grateful for Gytha’s presence. She was barely ten winters older than
Aelfwyn, but with four exuberant daughters to contend with, Gytha was used to providing comfort and strength.

  King Eatta emerged from his hall just as the eastern sky glowed gold. Resplendent in a leather tunic and breaches, a wolfpelt cloak hanging from his broad shoulders, the king navigated the slippery wooden steps outside his hall and strode across the snow toward the waiting crowd.

  A cluster of cloaked figures—his wife and daughters among them—trailed after Eatta. The king’s warriors, bringing Leofric with them, brought up the rear.

  Aelfwyn’s throat closed as the king approached. He carried a long ash rod in his right hand, which he trailed lazily after him, its tip slicing a line through the crisp snow. The indolence of his movements scared Aelfwyn. Her heart began thudding against her ribs, and she covered it with her hand, trying to calm herself.

  She could not bear to see Leofric beaten, yet she would not leave him to face it alone. Still, she felt sick and weak-kneed at the mere thought of what was to come.

  “Courage, Aeaba,” Gytha whispered as if she sensed her terror. “It’ll all be over soon enough.”

  They dragged Leofric to where a tall oaken pole cast a shadow over the white square. Then they stripped off the linen tunic and leather jerkin he wore, baring his naked torso to the morning’s chill. Finally they tied Leofric up, so he was hugging the pole, with his wrists bound together.

  Aelfwyn watched the king saunter across to Leofric, his fur-lined boots crunching in the snow.

  “There were twenty thyrmsas in this man’s purse,” he announced to the expectant crowd. “Twenty pieces of gold for the trees he cut down without my leave. For that he will receive twenty strokes.”

  An excited hush fell across the square. Bile rose in Aelfwyn’s throat. Leofric did not speak after the king’s declaration. Aelfwyn was relieved, for it was clear Eatta would need little excuse to increase his punishment.

  The King of Lindesege took up his position a couple of feet back from Leofric and brought his arm back.

  The crowd held its breath and Aelfwyn started to feel light-headed.

  The rod whistled as it cut through the air. The crack as it connected with Leofric’s bare back shattered the silence.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Honesty

  “Vicious, vindictive bastard,” Aelfwyn muttered as she sponged Leofric’s bloodied back. “He didn’t need to hurt you this badly.”

  Leofric gave a soft moan in reply.

  He sat before the hearth in Cynn and Gytha’s hall, bent double in agony while Aelfwyn tended to his back.

  “Here.” Gytha bustled up to them, a clay vile clutched in her hand. “The local herbwife swears by oil of lavender for wounds.”

  Aelfwyn nodded, her lips set in a thin, hard line. Behind them, Cynn nursed a cup of ale at the table. Either side of Cynn, his four daughters—Ealhgyth, Hilla, Sifleda and Merwyn—looked on with eyes as big as moons. The two elder girls, Ealhgyth and Hilla, were auburn-haired and green eyed like their mother, while the Sifleda and Merwyn—four and six winters respectively—had blonde hair and their father’s blue eyes.

  Aelfwyn saw the worry on the girls’ faces and attempted to soften her features. She did not want to scare them. Still, her hands shook from anger as she took the vial from Gytha. Fury twisted her innards up in knots.

  Her gaze returned to Leofric’s back, and she studied the bruises and lacerations that criss-crossed it. Eatta had been red-faced and sweating by the time he had finished the flogging. He had put all his force into each stroke of the rod.

  Leofric had not cried out once during the punishment, although he ended up sagging against the pole in the end, and collapsed once the king’s men unshackled him. His back had glistened scarlet, and when he fell onto the ground his blood soaked into the pristine snow.

  The king stood over Leofric’s prone body for a few moments. Then, satisfied he had dealt with the woodcutter, he turned his back on him and strode back indoors. His retainers had followed him and slowly the gathered crowd dispersed.

  Watching the king stride away, Aelfwyn had wished she were a man. She would have given anything to be able to come after Eatta with a spear and gore him like the pig he was.

  Aelfwyn put aside her simmering outrage and used a soft cloth to gently apply the lavender oil to the wounds. Leofric hissed in pain, his body going rigid as she worked.

  “I’m sorry this is hurting you,” she murmured, “but the oil should soothe the pain soon.”

  “Thank you, Aelfwyn,” he finally managed, his voice strangled. “I’m well enough; it could have been worse.”

  “Worse?” Aelfwyn drew herself up. “You’re lucky you can’t see the mess he’s made of your back!”

  Leofric gave a soft laugh, and then groaned as the movement hurt him.

  “Lenred’s right,” Cynn piped up from behind them. “It could have been much worse. Lucky for you both that the town needs a woodcutter. The king held back this morning.”

  Incensed, Aelfwyn turned on him. “He’ll bear scars for the rest of his life!”

  “Aye, but they’ll be faint.” Cynn held her gaze. “Last year Eatta caught a man groping his wife. He flogged him so viciously that the warrior died three days later from loss of blood.”

  Aelfwyn stared back at him, a chill passing through her. Seeing her look of horror, Cynn gave an apologetic shrug. “The king’s not a man lightly crossed,” he warned. “He is also greedy and territorial—for the past three years he has demanded a ‘gild’ from me for the meadhall.”

  That caught Leofric’s attention. He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze narrowing as it met Cynn’s. “He’s taxing you?”

  “Aye—and every year the price goes up.” Cynn’s usually good-tempered face creased in anger. “This year he’s demanding twenty shillings. If I don’t pay, he’ll turf us out.”

  Aelfwyn listened to Cynn’s words and glanced over at where Gytha stood silently by the hearth. Her friend looked unusually subdued, and she did not blame her. Eatta risked the ruin of them all.

  How quickly things could change. Her life at Bebbanburg had appeared a pleasant one until the night Ecgfrith visited her alcove. Now, once again, a king had cast a shadow over her life and threatened her fragile happiness.

  She wished she had listened to Leofric at Winterfylleth. He had tried to convince her to leave here, but she had refused. Aelfwyn had thought only King Ecgfrith posed a danger to them, that Lincylene would provide a safe haven.

  Too late she now realized there was no such thing.

  “It’s still snowing.”

  Leofric looked up from where he whittled a piece of wood in front of the hearth. “Aye, folk are saying this is the bitterest winter in years.

  Aelfwyn closed the window, shutting out the swirling blizzard, and huffed in frustration. “We’ll never get away from here at this rate.”

  “As soon as the spring thaw arrives we will,” Leofric assured her. “Don’t fret—Ecgfrith won’t be able to reach us in this weather.”

  “It’s not him that worries me,” Aelfwyn admitted, sitting down opposite Leofric and taking up the tunic she had been mending. “Eatta is a madman. I won’t be able to rest until we are out from under his shadow.”

  Leofric smiled. He regarded Aelfwyn under slightly lowered lids. “He made his point. You heard Cynn—the town needs a woodcutter. It’s not in Eatta’s interest to kill me.”

  Aelfwyn met his gaze, noting how handsome he looked in the firelight. His auburn hair was starting to curl at the nape. Seven days had passed since the flogging, and Leofric’s back was healing quickly. However, the memory of watching him being beaten had left a scar upon Aelfwyn. She could not let her guard down. “What if you offend him again?”

  Leofric gave a soft laugh. “I’ll do my best not to.”

  Aelfwyn glared at him. “Now you’re making fun.”

  Leofric’s smile faded. He put aside the wood he was whittling and came to her. He hunkered down next to Aelfwyn so their gazes
were level and reached out for her hand. The warmth and strength of his fingers closing around hers made Aelfwyn’s heart start to race. They hardly ever touched; their only physical contact was when she dressed his back. His closeness made it difficult to breathe.

  “Making fun is the last thing I’d do,” he told her gently. “Pride has ever been my downfall, Aelfwyn. It’s the reason Ealdorman Godwine banished me to Lindisfarena. I’ve never suffered being told what to do—not by my father, overlord, or king. If I’d asked Eatta’s permission before cutting down any of his trees, I could have avoided that flogging.”

  She stared back at him, drowning in the hazel-green depths of his eyes. “Can’t we just leave here and put all of this behind us?” she asked.

  He reached out and brushed away a lock of hair from her face that had come free of its braid. His knuckles lightly grazed her cheek as he did so and she trembled. “We can and will—as soon as spring comes.”

  She nodded, her mouth going dry. He was looking at her so intently that she felt stripped naked. This look was different to any other he had given her; it was not the melting, seductive gaze of old. Nor was it one full of teasing humor, as was common between them. This look was so fierce that it took her breath away.

  “I’ll protect you, Aelfwyn,” he finished softly, “with my body—and my life.”

  Later that day, Leofric carried an iron pail of warm mash out to Windræs. The snow was still falling; thick flurries that obscured the surrounding landscape and narrowed Leofric’s world to the home he shared with Aelfwyn.

  After their intense conversation earlier, it was a relief to go outdoors for a spell. At least she had not flinched away from his touch. She had not recoiled from his intensity, although she had not responded to it either. He had caught her stealing glances at him afterward, her grey-blue gaze questioning.