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

by Jayne Castel

  “Do you think there will be any berries yet?”

  Leofric turned back to her, the good humor returning to his face. “Now you’re really being overly optimistic.”

  Aelfwyn sighed and looked down at the basket of kale. “I’m dying for some fruit—it seems an age since we finished the last of our apples.”

  “I’ll check for you,” Leofric promised, leaning down for a kiss, “but don’t get your hopes up.”

  Aelfwyn followed Leofric outside and watched him stride across the grass to the path that led alongside the riverbank. She stood in front of the hut, gazing after him until his tall figure disappeared from sight. Then with a sigh she turned and went back inside.

  She carried the kale over to her worktable and started chopping it for the pottage for their noon meal. A slight frown marred Aelfwyn’s forehead as she worked; her conversation with Leofric had left her out of sorts. It had not been right between them since their argument—they were beginning to struggle under the weight of too many things left unsaid.

  Irritated that her thoughts had turned in this direction—yet again—Aelfwyn scooped up the chopped kale and dumped it in the iron pot hanging above the fire pit. She grew tired of her own insecurity. Leofric treated her like his queen. He worshipped her body as if she was a goddess—what did a few mere words matter?

  Aelfwyn’s eyes filled with tears. She hated herself for it, but they did.

  Leofric left the smith’s forge empty-handed. His axe-blade was still not ready although Alric the Smith promised him he would have it the following day.

  Whistling to himself, Leofric exited the narrow alley and glanced up Steep Hill. The market would be there for a while yet—there was enough time to drop in to see Cynn first.

  His friend was washing cups when Leofric entered the meadhall. His sleeves rolled up, Cynn was frowning as he scrubbed away. It was too early in the day for drinkers, and the long, windowless structure was empty. A low fire crackled in the hearth in the center of the hall, flanked either side by two long tables. At noon and after dusk men, drinking elbow to elbow, would pack those tables.

  “Morning,” Leofric greeted him cheerfully.

  Cynn glanced up. “It’s a bit early in the day, isn’t it?”

  Leofric grinned. “It’s never too early for a cup of your finest, but I’m on my way to market and thought I’d see how you were.”

  Cynn shrugged. “Well enough. I haven’t seen you round here often in the evenings of late.”

  “Eatta emptied my purse,” Leofric replied, leaning against the doorframe and folding his arms across his chest. “Not much spare gold for mead these days.”

  He gave Cynn a long look then. “You don’t seem yourself this morning, is something wrong?”

  His friend shrugged and gave a tired smile. “Just the look of a weary man. My wife and daughters keep me awake with their prattle.”

  Leofric laughed. “You have a fine family and you know it.”

  “Aye—but a man with so many daughters and no sons carries a heavy burden.”

  Leofric studied Cynn and wondered if he was struggling to gather enough gold to pay the king’s outrageous ‘gild’. He hesitated to ask about it though for he knew Cynn was proud. He might see a friend’s concern as meddling.

  “I shall leave you to your work then.” Leofric pushed himself off the doorframe. “Shall I come by later for a long overdue game of knucklebones?”

  Cynn smiled. “Still think you can beat me?”

  Leofric grinned back. “I will—one of these days.”

  Inside the meadhall, Cynn picked up a cup and dunked it in the pail of dirty water.

  A tall, red haired man with hazel eyes.

  Three men from Eoforwic had arrived in town yesterday. They had come to the meadhall asking about an outlaw whom the ealdorman was hunting. The man they sought was named Leofric.

  Cynn placed the washed cup upside down on the table and reached for another.

  What if the man Cynn had welcomed into his home was a liar? He thought back to that incident in the autumn in Torksey, when the King of Northumbria’s men were asking folk if they had seen a girl with pale blonde hair and grey-blue eyes. Ecgfrith of Northumbria had been looking for her. The pieces of the puzzle now starting to fit together; Cynn realized that both Lenred and Aeaba were hunted.

  Lenred and Aeaba—both false names.

  Cynn looked down at the empty cup he held. Is that a good enough reason to betray them?

  The northerners had spoken of a ‘gild’—a great sum of gold—that the ealdorman would pay for the outlaw. It was thirty shillings, more than enough to pay the tax he owed Eatta—plenty to ensure the well-being of his family for the coming year.

  Gytha will never forgive me.

  But his wife did not understand the pressure he was under. He had barely saved ten thrymsas over the last year, only half of the payment Eatta demanded. He was due to go before the king at Eōstre with the gold. If he did not, Eatta would take everything he had worked so hard for away.

  I can’t let that happen to my family.

  Cynn put down the cup, dried off his hands, and reached for his cloak. The men had told him they were guests of King Eatta, and that they would be staying in his hall for another two days. There was still time to catch them.

  Leofric wandered amongst the stalls in Market Square searching for berries.

  He knew his evasive attitude upset Aelfwyn at times. He was sorry he had upset her two evenings earlier. He was not sure exactly what he had done wrong—he only knew that the moment she said anything good about his character he felt the need to put her right. He had seen the hurt and anger in her eyes and was keen to appease her.

  There was a surprising array of fresh greens this morning, as well as some crisp spring cabbages—but no berries. The small, tart strawberries folk enjoyed with cream, and the raspberries and blackcurrants, would not come till later.

  However, he did come across an old man selling apples. They were the last of the winter store, a little shriveled but definitely edible.

  “They’ll be good in cakes and pies,” the vendor told him with a gap-toothed smile. “Sweet and tart with firm flesh.”

  “You make them sound like a woman,” Leofric replied with a grin. “I’ll take a bag.”

  “Less trouble than women,” the old man replied, filling the cloth bag that Leofric passed him.

  Leofric laughed, and the vendor gave him an assessing look. “Are you the new woodcutter who lives on the banks of the Whitham?”

  Leofric’s smile faded. Ever since his run in with the king, he had grown wary of folk here. “Aye.”

  “I need timber.”

  Leofric raised an eyebrow. “And?”

  “My son and his wife have come to live with me. My own wife died two winters’ ago, but the dwelling is too small for the three of us—especially since my new daughter is with child. I need wood to build onto the back of my home.”

  Leofric relaxed, and he smiled. “I felled a beech two days ago,” he replied, “and there’s also some coppicing oak I can bring you.”

  “Can you take me to see the wood this afternoon?” the vendor asked. “My son can help you bring it to my home.”

  Leofric nodded and started to discuss the old man’s requirements. The winter had seemed endless, and the snows had taken an age to melt. Aelfwyn was right—spring was in the air. This was a chance for him to earn them some valuable thrymsas before they left Lincylene.

  Intent on his discussion, Leofric did not notice Cynn cross the Market Square behind him. The meadhall owner cast Leofric an intent look. His gaze shifted between the woodcutter and the merchant who stood chatting together. Then Cynn quickened his pace across the paved expanse toward the Great Hall.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Betrayal

  King Eatta surveyed the meadhall owner, his gaze so intense that Cynn started to squirm.

  A heavy silence had fallen in the hall, broken only by the sound of an i
nfant whimpering in one of the alcoves. His movements unhurried, Eatta turned his attention to the three men who lounged at the table upon the high seat. Cynn had interrupted a game of Cyningtaefl—King’s Table.

  “What do you think, Halwend?” Eatta drawled. “Does this sound like the man you’re looking for?”

  One of them, a heavy-featured warrior with untamed brown hair, put down his chess piece and gave a slow nod. His gaze pinned Cynn to the spot. “What did you say this man’s name is?”

  “Lenred.”

  The warrior flicked a cursory glance in the direction of his blond companions. They were both younger men, who clearly looked to him as their leader. “It makes sense he would change his name.”

  “Aye,” one of them replied. “Leofric is no fool—he’ll know we’re hunting him.”

  Halwend looked back at Cynn. “When did he arrive in Lincylene?”

  “Late summer,” the meadhall owner replied.

  “That would be about right,” the warrior mused. “It was just after midsummer when he fled south.”

  King Eatta leaned back in his carved chair and slung one leg over the serpent armrest. “So you say this Leofric fell foul of the ealdorman?”

  Halwend nodded. “Aye—insulted Godwine’s daughter, so the ealdorman banished him to Lindisfarena.”

  “Only he didn’t like being a monk so he ran off the first chance he got,” one of the blond warriors added before smirking.

  “This man Cynn speaks of turned up here and started cutting down my trees without asking my permission,” Eatta told them. “I flogged his back bloody for it.”

  “Sounds like Leofric,” the elder of the three warriors replied. His gaze then met the king’s. “If this is the man we seek, do I have your permission to take him, sire?”

  Eatta gave a slow smile. “Yes—you do.”

  “Where can I find this woodcutter?”

  “He lives in a cottage by the River Witham, just east of here.”

  Cynn stepped forward then. This conversation was starting to get away from him. He was keen to receive his gold and did not want the king to take credit for leading these men to the outlaw.

  He boldly met Halwend of Eoforwic’s steel-blue gaze. “Fate is with you this morning.” Cynn gestured behind him. “I saw Lenred on my way in here. He’s at the market.”

  Leofric bid the apple-seller good morning and sauntered off with a bag of apples under his arm. It had been a productive conversation. Cerd, the old man, had promised to visit him this afternoon. A handful of thyrmsas would fill his purse nicely. He would need to buy supplies for their journey south.

  Leofric was also pleased that he would not return home to Aelfwyn empty-handed. He had seen the look of disappointment, of hurt, in her eyes earlier.

  Leofric had seen the expression increasingly often of late.

  Aelfwyn sought to get closer to him. She wanted to learn about the man who shared her home and her life—but the thought of baring his soul to her terrified him. Leofric had spent his life avoiding emotional conversations. The youngest of a brood of rough boys, he had learned early on that showing his feelings led to a bloodied nose or black eye. His brothers had been like a pack of wild dogs, circling him, taunting him. One whiff of fear and they would have torn him to pieces.

  Aelfwyn was gentle, sweet, and loving—but the words he longed to tell her stuck in his throat every time a tender moment arose between them.

  He showed her with his body every time they lay together. The depths of their passion for each other had surprised him—it still did two months later. He had delighted in showing Aelfwyn what it could be like between a man and a woman; and was relieved to see that she had left Ecgfrith behind. Truthfully he had never been with such a passionate woman. Aelfwyn may have appeared sweet and demure but in the furs she was a wildcat.

  Leofric could not believe how wyrd had shone on him. Did he deserve such a goddess in his life?

  I’ll tell her how I feel soon, he promised himself as he trekked down Steep Hill toward the town gates, once we’re far from here.

  Leofric left Lincylene and crossed the wooden bridge beyond, before turning onto the path through the woods.

  Deep in thought, he did not hear the footfalls behind him until they were almost upon him.

  The crunch of a twig underfoot made him swing around. Three men approached. They were dressed in boiled leather and heavy fur cloaks, swords at their sides.

  Leofric’s heart skipped a beat when he recognized their faces. Godwine of Eoforwic’s right hand, Halwend stood before him. Two younger warriors with dark blond hair flanked him: Berhtulf and Wybert. The ealdorman’s sons were the same age as Leofric—he had grown up with them, hunted and drunk with them.

  Today though there was no sign of friendship on their faces.

  Halwend stopped a few feet away. He had not drawn a weapon although his stance was alert, his powerful body coiled and ready to spring.

  “You led us on a merry dance, Leo.”

  “Aye.” Wybert grinned. “Didn’t life on Lindisfarena please you?”

  Leofric raised an eyebrow, feigning calm even if his heart had started to pound like a battle drum. “What do you think?”

  “Godwine’s sour over this,” Halwend said, his gaze hard. “He wants his reckoning.”

  “You insulted our sister,” Berhtulf added. “We all want vengeance.”

  Leofric stared back at them, considering his next move. The ‘old him’ would have taunted them. A year ago he would have told them that their sister did indeed resemble a sow and that the pair of them had faces like horses’ arses.

  But a year ago he had been a different man—reckless, arrogant, and foolish.

  “I’m sorry for insulting Hrothwyn,” he said finally. “She didn’t deserve it.”

  Berhtulf screwed his face up and spat on the ground. “Too late for apologies now.”

  However, Halwend watched Leofric, his expression thoughtful. “You’re changed,” he noted. “What happened to the mouthy lad I used to beat at knucklebones.”

  Leofric’s mouth twisted. Those evenings in the meadhall with Halwend and the other warriors seemed a lifetime ago. “He grew up.”

  “That’s touching,” Wybert sneered and took a menacing step forward, his meaty hands clenching at his sides. “But it changes nothing. You’re coming with us.”

  Leofric tossed the apples into the bushes and drew his seax. “Not without a fight.”

  Halwend grinned. “That’s more like the Leofric I remember. Still got fire in your belly I see.”

  They advanced on him slowly, all three of them drawing the seaxes at their waists. Leofric backed slowly away and weighed up his options. Things were looking bad for him. Three against one was not a fair fight.

  They had him cornered. He could not run, and he would not give himself to them. Still, despair lodged in his throat as Wybert rushed at him.

  Wybert’s broad face was ruddy, and he struck out in anger, the tip of his blade ripping through Leofric’s fur mantle. Leofric struck back, his knife scoring the front of Wybert’s leather breastplate. Wybert roared in rage and charged him.

  “Careful!” Halwend bellowed. “Your father wants him alive.”

  A quick and violent scuffle ensued. Leofric put up the best fight he could but, despite his slashing seax-blade, the three of them eventually overpowered him.

  Face down on the leaf-strewn path, Leofric struggled as Halwend knelt on the small of his back and bound his wrists behind him.

  Leofric had managed to draw blood before they wrestled him to the ground. Both of the ealdorman’s sons bore cuts to their arms—only Halwend was unscathed. Godwine had sent the warrior looking for him on purpose. Halwend had nerves of iron, and his valor in battle was living legend in Eoforwic.

  “Such a pity your mouth’s quicker than your brain,” the older man laughed, hauling him to his feet. “You were always good in a fight.”

  Berhtulf stood, clutching his bleeding arm and glari
ng at Leofric. “You’ll pay for that.”

  A couple of feet away, Wybert grimaced as he wrapped a strip of linen around his damaged wrist. Blood had already seeped through the material, staining it crimson. The ealdorman’s youngest son glanced over at his brother. “Don’t worry—he will.”

  Wybert then turned to Leofric and spat on the ground. “I’ll make sure fæder makes you cry for your mother before he cuts off your head.”

  “Enough talk.” Halwend shoved Leofric between the shoulders, pushing him along the path in the direction they had come. “We’ve got a long ride ahead. Let’s ready the horses.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  The Whispering Wind

  Aelfwyn was hanging out the washing when she spied a man approaching the hut. Even at a distance she could see it was not Leofric. Although he was of a similar age, this man was not quite as tall, with brown hair.

  Waric.

  Leofric had once considered the warrior a friend, but after the flogging things had changed. Aelfwyn had seen the conflict, the indecision in Waric’s face when he had come to collect Leofric that day in the woods. He followed the king’s orders, but it had not sat well with him. Even so, Leofric had considered it a betrayal. The two of them no longer shared stories and drank together in Cynn’s meadhall, and Aelfwyn was sorry for it. She wondered, since the warrior was alone, if Waric had come to apologize.

  Aelfwyn finished hanging up the last tunic and walked out to meet Waric.

  “Lenred’s not here,” she greeted him with a smile. “He went into town—I’m surprised you didn’t see him.”

  Her smile faded when she saw the stern look on Waric’s face. His grey eyes were solemn.

  “I know he’s not here,” he replied. “I also know his real name is Leofric.”

  Aelfwyn went cold. She hugged the empty wicker basket she carried against her side and tried to master herself. Losing her nerve would not help Leofric—or her.