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

by Jayne Castel

  Still they did not catch Leofric and his captors up. Eventually a grey dusk settled over the land, bringing with it a veil of misty rain. Cold, stiff, and sore, Aelfwyn took a few bites of her dwindling loaf of bread and ate two carrots. After seeing to Windræs, she wrapped her cloak tightly about her and sat down under a spreading birch. She would not light a fire tonight. It was too damp, and she did not have the energy to go foraging for dry wood.

  They ride as if the devil were after them.

  Staring out at the gently falling rain, she wondered how Leofric was. She hoped they had not harmed him.

  What am I doing?

  The further she rode the more doubt settled in. With no one to talk to her thoughts turned inward and worry started to gnaw at her. What could she—a lone woman—do against three seasoned warriors?

  Leofric would be furious if he knew she was coming after him. He probably thought she was safe with Cynn and Gytha. Little did he know that his friend had betrayed them.

  Say she did manage to catch them before Eoforwic—what then? Did she really think she could sneak into their camp under the cover of darkness and steal Leofric away?

  Tears stung her eyelids. She squeezed them shut, resting her brow upon her raised knees. She knew it was hopeless, that her behavior was rash and foolhardy, but she could not—would not—turn back now.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Reckoning

  Three days later Aelfwyn rode into Eoforwic.

  Nestled at the confluence of two rivers, the Ouse and the Foss, the town sat upon a gently sloping hill surrounded by high wooden ramparts. It was a still, damp morning, and the sky was the color of smoke. Wooden barges floated on the calm waters of the Ouse, and fishermen’s huts lined its reed-covered banks. The air smelled of burning peat and drying fish.

  Aelfwyn pulled Windræs up and gazed across the sea of thatched roofs before her. She had never visited the town before—her journey north to Bebbanburg from Rendlaesham had taken her along the coast rather than inland—and she was surprised how large the town was. Within the ramparts she spied two thatched roofs, higher than all the others: Eoforwic’s church and the Great Hall that sat next to it.

  Inhaling deeply, collecting what was left of her courage, Aelfwyn gathered the reins and urged Windræs on. She would find Leofric there. Despite that Windræs had raced like the wind to catch them up, she had failed. Now he would be in the ealdorman’s hands—and his execution imminent.

  It had been an exhausting journey. Her back ached from sleeping rough, and her thigh muscles burned with agony at the end of each day’s ride. Through it all she had been terrified that outlaws might ambush her.

  Yet here she was in Eoforwic. She had no plan now. She had come too far to give up, or turn back. Instead she would go before the ealdorman and beg for Leofric’s life. Even if Godwine softened the penalty to exile, at least she would have saved the man she loved.

  Windræs clip-clopped across the bridge and through the low gate into Eoforwic. The air within smelled fetid; the stench of excrement mingling with the aroma of roasting mutton and the odor of pigs, fowl, and sheep. Aelfwyn wrinkled her nose and urged Windræs on, up the unpaved road leading to the high gate. Ahead she glanced up at the wooden guard towers. Warriors wearing helmets and chainmail vests stood atop the towers, their spears silhouetted against the pale sky. She spied the Northumbrian flag hanging limply above the high gate, and her belly clenched.

  She had not seen that flag since Bebbanburg. It was a chilling reminder that she had returned to Ecgfrith’s domain. The sight of so many spearman guarding the high gate also unnerved her. As she drew near, she saw that their shields bore the Northumbrian colors: yellow and red.

  Aelfwyn’s heart skipped a beat. The ealdorman was powerful and feared—but these were not his warriors.

  She had seen the same armor, the same shields in Bebbanburg. These men served the King of Northumbria.

  Ecgfrith was here.

  Leofric knelt on the rushes before the high seat, his head bowed low.

  He felt the gazes of all present stabbing into him but ignored them. Instead his attention was focused upon the man who stood next to the king upon the heah-setl.

  Godwine of Eoforwic.

  Leofric glanced up, his gaze meeting the ealdorman’s. Godwine was as physically intimidating as Leofric remembered: a huge man with grizzled brown hair, a thick beard, and penetrating dark eyes.

  It appeared his arrival had coincided with a visit from Ecgfrith of Northumbria. This was not unusual—just very poor timing. Traditionally, the king treated the halls of his ealdorman as his own and would often spend weeks enjoying their hospitality. Leofric remembered Ecgfrith’s father, Oswiu, making frequent trips to Eoforwic in the past.

  Next to Godwine, Ecgfrith appeared boyish and weedy. This was the first time Leofric had set eyes on the new king. He was young—barely older than Leofric—with a long face and a sharp hazel gaze. Next to him stood a beautiful raven-haired woman. Leofric guessed this was Aethelhild, the woman Aelfwyn had served. A few steps behind the queen stood a priest—a tall, spare man with a long, angular face, penetrating dark eyes, and thick grey hair shaved into a tonsure.

  Behind the ealdorman and the king sat two women; the ealdorman’s wife and his daughter, Hrothwyn. Mother and daughter looked startlingly alike; both heavyset with round, florid faces and frizzy brown hair. The sight of Hrothwyn made Leofric’s chest constrict. He felt as if he was reliving that scene all those months ago—only this time things were far worse for him. Leofric tried to catch her eye, but she stared down at her feet, refusing to look in his direction.

  “So they finally found you.” Godwine broke the heavy silence. His gaze shifted to Berhtulf and Wybert, who stood to Leofric’s left. “Well done, my sons.” He then glanced to where Halwend flanked Leofric’s right. “I knew you wouldn’t fail me.”

  The brown-haired warrior inclined his head and smiled. “He wasn’t easy to find.”

  Godwine’s gaze returned to Leofric. “Do you remember my last words to you?”

  Leofric nodded. Since entering the hall he had not spoken. He intended to say as little as possible. His rash tongue had gotten him into this mess, it was best he kept a leash on it now.

  “What excuse do you have to make for yourself, Leofric?”

  Leofric cleared his throat. “Excuse, milord?” He had the sinking feeling that Godwine was toying with him.

  “Surely there was a reason you ran from Lindisfarena?”

  Leofric began to sweat. His gaze flicked to the king and queen as he considered his response. He would not mention Aelfwyn, not with Ecgfrith present.

  “There was no reason, milord,” he began quietly, “other than I didn’t wish to remain there.”

  Godwine snorted. “Once you left the island you should have kept running, boy. I warned you what would happen if you defied me.”

  Leofric held his gaze. “You did.”

  The ealdorman glanced over at Halwend. “His parents need to be here for this—go and fetch them before I say anything more.”

  Leofric dropped his gaze to the rushes, heart pounding. He wondered, since his father had proclaimed him a nithing, if they would even come. He did not want to see their faces, or their anger, humiliation, and disappointment in him. However, Godwine knew what he was doing—he would make sure Leofric’s punishment had an audience.

  He remained on his knees, with the ealdorman’s sons standing guard over him, while Halwend went to do Godwine’s bidding. Meanwhile conversation resumed in the hall around him. Women went back to their weaving, servants returned to preparing the nón-mete—noon meal—and the king, queen, and ealdorman took their places upon the high seat.

  Leofric listened to the rumble of voices, the rise and fall of female conversation amidst the low timbre of men’s speech. Somewhere at the back of the hall a newborn wailed before it was immediately hushed.

  Leofric heard Ecgfrith speak to Godwine.

  “Around the t
ime this man escaped Lindisfarena, my wife’s handmaid went missing,” he said, his voice a soft drawl.

  Leofric stared down at the dirty rushes and felt himself go cold.

  When the ealdorman made no comment to this, the king continued. “We discovered that she had thrown herself into the sea and washed up on the isle, where some of the monks took her in. Once the prior discovered her, he sent her back to Bebbanburg with an escort of two monks—however she never reached her destination.”

  A heartbeat passed, and Leofric could feel the king’s gaze boring into his skull, daring him to look up and meet his eye. Pulse racing, Leofric kept his gaze downcast.

  “Cuthbert sent word that one of the monks knocked his companion unconscious before escaping south with the girl. It appears an odd coincidence, for this monk’s name was Leofric.”

  A heavy silence fell, but eventually Godwine broke it. “That is a coincidence indeed, milord … Leofric, what say you of this tale?”

  Leofric remained where he was, unmoving, scarcely breathing.

  “Leofric.” Godwine’s tone sharpened. “Look me in the eye and speak the truth.”

  Reluctantly Leofric raised his chin. The king sat in the center of the high seat, flanked to one side by his wife, the other by the ealdorman. Their expressions were all different. Godwine’s face had flushed. The king’s features had sharpened—his eyes keen. However, the queen, who until now had worn a detached mask, had gone ashen. Her blue eyes were wide as she stared down at Leofric.

  “I did help her escape,” he finally admitted. “Aelfwyn was frightened. She didn’t want to go back to Bebbanburg.”

  “Why was she frightened?” Aethelhild spoke up. She had leaned forward in her chair, her gaze locking with Leofric’s.

  “Silence, wife.” Ecgfrith brought up a slim hand and clicked his fingers. His face had gone taut, his hazel eyes dangerous. “I did not give you leave to speak.”

  Aethelhild’s face pinkened. “But I need to know why—”

  “You need to know nothing. Still your tongue.”

  The queen sat back in her chair, obeying her husband this time. However, Leofric saw the way her pulse fluttered in the hollow at the base of her neck, the way her blue eyes slitted with rage. Aethelhild loathed Ecgfrith—that much was plain to see.

  Dismissing her, the king turned his wintry gaze upon Leofric. “Where is the girl now?”

  Leofric shrugged. “I know not. I accompanied her as far as Streonshalh before I continued south. As far as I know she’s still at the abbey.”

  A nerve flickered in Ecgfrith’s cheek. “She’s no longer at Streonshalh.”

  Leofric held his gaze. “Then I have no idea where she is.”

  Two heartbeats passed before Ecgfrith’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “Liar.”

  Halwend returned a short time later, bringing Leofric’s kin with him. Driffield was a short ride from Eoforwic; it had not taken Halwend long to fetch them.

  To Leofric’s horror he saw they had all come: his father, mother, brothers and sisters. Leofric took one glance at their faces and looked away—he could not bear to see their disappointment.

  Wibert of Driffield led his family into the hall. Leather creaking, a squirrel cloak rippling behind him, he strode across the rushes toward his son. Leofric saw Wibert bearing down upon him and rose to his feet to face his father.

  Wibert’s freckled face had gone the color of raw meat, his usually hazel eyes a vivid, angry green. He reached his son and struck him hard across the face, hitting him with such force that Leofric fell backward and landed on his rump.

  “Cloth-headed turd!”

  Leofric spat out a gob of blood and attempted a smile. “At least that’s better than calling me a nithing.”

  “You’re lower than a nithing!” his father raged, taking a menacing step toward him.

  “Enough, Wibert,” the ealdorman rumbled. “It’s not for you to deal out justice here—Leofric is mine now.”

  Wibert straightened up, his gaze flicking to Godwine. A muscle worked in his jaw, for it was clear he wanted to launch himself at Leofric and pummel him into the ground. However, he did as bid and stepped back from his son. His wife, Cynhild, came up to her husband’s side. Her grey eyes were pleading as she attempted to take hold of his arm and steer him back to where the rest of the family waited. “Come, Wibert.”

  “Get off me, woman,” Wibert snarled, shoving her aside.

  Leofric looked up and met his mother’s gaze. Halwend was right, she did not look happy. Grey now threaded her once vibrant red hair, her beautiful features faded by disappointment and grief. A lump formed in Leofric’s throat when he saw the pain in her eyes. He did not want his mother to witness this; he wanted to spare her seeing her youngest son executed. But this humiliation was exactly what Godwine wanted.

  “Now you’re all here, I’ll start,” the ealdorman rumbled. Godwine sat forward in his chair, his big body tense as he snared Leofric’s gaze with his.

  “You disobeyed me once more, Leofric of Driffield—and the penalty for that is death.”

  Behind him Leofric heard a woman, possibly his mother or one of his sisters, start to sob.

  “I will wield the axe myself,” Godwine continued, “but before you die I want you to feel the humiliation, the suffering, you inflicted upon my daughter when you refused her.” The ealdorman gave a cruel smile and leaned back in his chair. “You will be placed in the stocks for three days in the square in front of my hall, so that folk can punish you. On the dawn of the fourth, I shall take your head.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Unmasked

  Leofric felt nothing as he listened to his sentence.

  It was no worse than he had expected. Death would be a relief after being at the mercy of Eoforwic’s folk for three days.

  Leofric dipped his head, silently acknowledging the sentence. Nothing could change it now, and he would not debase himself further by begging for mercy. Not in front of his family. However, he knew that whatever the outcome, an apology was necessary.

  After a few moments he looked up, meeting the ealdorman’s hard stare. “I am sorry for insulting your daughter and dishonoring you.” His gaze flicked to Hrothwyn. The young woman still stared at her feet. She had not raised her eyes once since he had entered the hall; she could not bear to look upon him. “I know I can’t undo what has been done, but I wanted Hrothwyn to hear my words.”

  A weighty silence settled over the hall. When Godwine answered, his face was stony, his voice harsh. “Your words come too late. They are the desperate plea of a doomed man. You could have come straight back here after leaving Lindisfarena but instead you fled. You’re only sorry because my sons caught you.”

  “I’m not asking you to release me,” Leofric shot back, his anger rising. “I was only apologizing.”

  Godwine’s mouth twisted. “So you can meet my axe with a clear conscience?”

  Leofric opened his mouth to answer but a woman’s plea cut him off.

  “I beg you—spare his life!”

  Leofric’s chest twisted. Lord, have mercy—no. He would know that voice anywhere.

  He raised his head and looked over his shoulder to see Aelfwyn shoulder her way through the crowd of gawking retainers. His breathing caught in his throat. Dressed as a boy in woolen leggings, a long tunic, and fur cloak, she looked so young, so vulnerable. Her pale blonde hair had come loose of its braids and flowed softly over her shoulders. She wore his sword—the blade he had taken from Thunred—at her side.

  Aelfwyn broke free from the edge of the crowd; but two of the ealdorman’s men caught her before she could reach Leofric. She struggled in their iron grip, her gaze meeting his across the narrow space separating them. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes glittered with tears.

  Aelfwyn saw the disbelief flicker across Leofric’s face, followed by dismay.

  “God’s bones, Aelfwyn—what are you doing here?” he breathed.

  She had expected a warmer welcome,
although she had not planned on barging into the ealdorman’s hall.

  Aelfwyn had entered the high gate without difficulty, telling the guards there she bore a message from the King of Lindesege. After leaving Windræs in the stables, she had found the yard in front of the Great Hall deserted. Everyone was indoors—and she knew why. Without thinking on the consequences, only knowing that she had to do this, Aelfwyn had mounted the steps to the hall. No spearman guarded the entrance—they had all gone inside to witness the sentencing.

  “A bit late to take the lord’s name.” Godwine broke the deathly hush that followed. “Seeing as you rejected a monk’s life.” He inclined his head toward the king, a cold smile spreading across his face. “Is this the woman you were seeking, sire?”

  Aelfwyn met Ecgfrith’s gaze, and her stomach clenched. He was staring at her with a hungry, possessive look. Beside him Aethelhild was pale. She watched Aelfwyn as if a ghost stood before her.

  “You’re alive,” Aethelhild whispered. Her voice broke as she said these words and tears began trickling down her cheeks. Meeting the queen’s gaze, Aelfwyn felt as if a giant hand had reached inside her chest and was twisting. Aethelhild had grieved her loss. She must have worried about what had befallen her.

  Aelfwyn’s vision blurred with her own tears, although she blinked them back. This was not the time for weeping. She gave Aethelhild a brave smile. “Aye—Leofric has been looking after me.”

  “So I see,” the king drawled, his gaze raking her from head to toe. “He has made you his hōre.”

  Aelfwyn flinched at the insult. She glanced back over at Leofric and saw his face was now ashen. His eyes had deepened to a murderous green, narrowing into angry slits as he stared at the king.

  Ecgfrith gave a soft laugh before casting the ealdorman a wry look. “This is quite a development, Godwine. I am pleased I took the trouble to visit you. I came for a spring hunt but have already caught a most valuable prey.”