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

by Jayne Castel

  Leofric broke off then. A few moments passed before he continued. “You changed everything. I love you, Aelfwyn—I only wish I’d had the courage to tell you earlier. Now it’s too late.”

  Tears streamed down Aelfwyn’s face as she listened. Her soul ached at hearing the words. She longed to go to him, to wrap her arms about him, place her head against his breast, and listen to his heartbeat. She loved him so much, she felt as if her chest would explode from the force of it.

  “It’s not too late,” she whispered back. “You’re telling me now and that’s all that matters.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Meetings

  It was a cold, blustery morning as Hrothwyn, daughter of Godwine, made her way down the steps of the Great Hall. Pulling her fur cloak about her and blinking at the stinging wind, the young woman’s gaze swept across the wide space before her.

  On the east side of the square, farmers and merchants had set up their stalls for the morning’s market. Women carrying wicker baskets wove their way through the busy stalls, picking up their provisions for the noon meal. Just a few yards away, in the center of the square, Hrothwyn spied two crouched figures, their heads and wrists trapped in a heavy wooden stockade.

  Some folk had not come to the square to buy food. A group of lads were out already, circling the lovers like starving dogs. Their taunts and curses reached her, and Hrothwyn clenched her jaw at the vile words.

  Enough.

  “Lady Hrothwyn,” one of her father’s spearmen greeted her at the bottom of the steps. “Where are you going?”

  “I wish to speak with the prisoners,” she informed him, quietly but firmly.

  “I don’t think your father would be pleased by that.”

  “My father has given me permission,” she lied. Fortunately, Godwine had just departed Eoforwic with the king and a company of warriors for their spring hunt. This spearman would not be able to check with her father until his return.

  The man appeared to hesitate, indecision on his face. “Very well,” he muttered. “Just don’t get too close to either of them.”

  Hrothwyn gave him a jaundiced look. “They’re in the stocks,” she reminded him coolly, “and hardly a danger to me.”

  Not awaiting his response, the young woman squared her shoulders, gathered her courage, and strode out across the square.

  Leofric was dozing, lost in a fog of discomfort and exhaustion, when a shadow fell over him. He blinked and looked up to see a short, plump young woman with a round freckled face and wiry brown hair gazing down at him.

  “Hrothwyn,” he croaked, surprised to see her. He imagined she had come to spit on him, to vilify him like the rest of the folk here. Despite that he knew it was her right—far more than the scavengers that were now trailing into the market square—his heart sank. He did not want Aelfwyn to see this.

  “I have not come to insult you,” she told him eventually, as if reading his mind.

  Leofric cringed inside at these words. They were a stark reminder of how he had wounded her months earlier.

  “Look, Hrothwyn, I truly am sorry for what I said,” he croaked. His throat was parched, and it hurt to speak, but he had to make her understand.

  “You’ve already apologized,” she reminded him, “and I believe that you are truly remorseful.”

  He looked up into her earnest, solemn face and felt something twist in his chest. Now he was really starting to feel like a turd. “Then why are you here?”

  “Because I wanted you to know that I bear you no ill-will—that I wish there was a way I could help you and Aelfwyn.” Hrothwyn’s gaze flicked to where Aelfwyn silently listened to their conversation, and Hrothwyn gave her a sad smile. “Neither of you deserve this fate.”

  She then glanced back at Leofric, her smile fading. “I know I’m not comely, my father has told me often enough. Your words didn’t come as a shock—I was more afraid that my father would punish me for being unmarriageable.”

  Leofric held her gaze. “Did he?”

  She nodded. “He has found me a husband, a man three times my age who has already buried three wives. He wants a woman to breed him sons—he doesn’t care how fair my face is.”

  Leofric almost flinched at the baldness of her words. There was no self-pity, only cold fact. Hrothwyn accepted her fate, even if it was a cruel one.

  Hrothwyn favored him with a sad, self-effacing smile, reached up and placed her hand over the wooden crucifix she wore about her neck. “I will pray for you both.”

  Aethelhild stood back from the stockade, observing as Godwine’s daughter spoke quietly to Leofric. Aelfwyn, her pretty face splattered with dried filth, listened to their conversation, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears.

  Aethelhild did not want to interrupt Hrothwyn—for she could see it had taken a lot for the young woman to come outdoors to speak to Leofric. A few lads, buckets full of fresh slops, hovered nearby. Recognizing the ealdorman’s daughter, and then the queen, they kept their distance for the moment. Yet Aethelhild knew that the moment she and Hrothwyn departed, they would resume their campaign.

  Hrothwyn finished speaking to Leofric and stepped away from him. Aethelhild watched her turn away, before Hrothwyn then made her way back across the square toward the Great Hall.

  The boys hovering at the edge of the square made to close in. Aethelhild threw them a venomous look, causing them to shrink back once more, and strode over to the stocks. Aelfwyn saw her coming, her grey-blue eyes widening in surprise.

  “Milady,” Aelfwyn greeted her huskily, her gaze fixing upon the queen’s bruised left eye. Aethelhild knew she was not a pretty sight this morning. Her eye had swollen shut and ached steadily.

  “Morning, Aelfwyn.” Aethelhild glanced over at Leofric who was also watching her, his handsome face taut with fatigue and despair.

  “The king will not want you speaking to me.” Aelfwyn’s quietly spoken words brought Aethelhild’s attention back to her.

  The queen smiled. “I care not what the king wants—besides, he’s not here to stop me.”

  Aethelhild then casually glanced around her. There were a number of spearmen guarding the square, but they were all out of earshot.

  Good.

  The queen took a step closer, trying to ignore the stench of the excrement and rotting food that covered both the prisoners and the stocks. It was strong enough to make her eyes water.

  “This is a crime against everything I believe in,” Aethelhild began, her voice low and steady, “and I’ll not sit by and let those men take your lives.”

  Aelfwyn stared at her, momentarily struck speechless. When she finally found her tongue, the young woman’s voice was hushed. “There’s nothing you can do, milady. Please don’t put your own safety at risk for us—it’s too dangerous.”

  Aethelhild smiled. “I’ve decided that some things are worth risking. I’m not just doing this for you, but for myself. I cannot stay with Ecgfrith.”

  “He did that to you,” Leofric observed, his gaze upon her blackened eye, “didn’t he?”

  Aethelhild nodded. “And he will do worse for I can no longer keep quiet.”

  “But how can you possibly—” Aelfwyn began, her gaze wide and panicked.

  “Let me worry about that,” Aethelhild cut her off. She knew it must seem hopeless; she was one woman with only the bishop as her ally. How could she free Aelfwyn and Leofric, and escape Eoforwic?

  Aethelhild looked toward the busy market, just yards away. There, her gaze rested upon a red-haired woman wearing a woolen cloak. Aethelhild had spied the woman earlier, while Hrothwyn was speaking to Leofric. She had come to the square bearing a basket. Yet her gaze was not on the piles of spring greens, turnips and onions, but on Leofric.

  Cynhild of Driffield had come here to see her son. Aethelhild saw the anguish on the older woman’s face, the fury in her gaze, and knew she had found an ally.

  She glanced back at where Leofric and Aelfwyn watched her steadily.

  “Leave t
he details to me,” she said quietly. “Just be ready when the time comes.”

  Cynhild walked through the narrow streets of Eoforwic, her heart pounding. It was starting to rain; large wet drops hit her face, but she barely noticed them.

  Before setting out on the hunt with the ealdorman and king, her husband had expressly forbidden her from going to the stocks, from seeing their son. Usually she obeyed him in all things—Wibert had taken his fists to her more than once when she had defied him—yet this time she had not done his bidding.

  The sight of Leofric, trapped and splattered in filth, had nearly broken her heart.

  My boy.

  She had never gotten the chance to say goodbye all those months ago. One moment Leofric had been part of their lives, the next he was gone, and Wibert forbade any of the family from mentioning his name.

  Although she had always promised herself that she would never single out any of her children for special treatment, Leofric had been her favorite. Perhaps it was because he was the youngest of her brood or maybe it was his sunny, cheeky nature as a child. His older brothers had taken after their father—rough, hard men with bad tempers—whereas Leofric had a kind soul.

  Growing up he had been forced to develop a tough skin in order to survive in their family, and inch by inch she had lost her boy to a cocky, selfish young man who lived only to satisfy his own wants. Still, she had sometimes caught glimpses of the man underneath, the man he could be.

  She had watched him stand before the ealdorman and the king, listened to him speak to them, and her heart had swollen with pride. Then when his lover had burst in and pleaded for his life, her heart had broken.

  She did not know what had befallen him over the past year, but she could see he had changed.

  Earlier, Cynhild had watched Queen Aethelhild approach Leofric and Aelfwyn and speak to them quietly. It was a curious sight, to see such a beautiful lady clothed in flowing blue, glide across the filthy square to the stocks. Watching them, Cynhild could see they were speaking of something important—she wished she was closer so she could overhear them.

  Then the queen had glanced up, her penetrating gaze snaring Cynhild’s.

  Frozen to the spot Cynhild had watched Lady Aethelhild bid the lovers good day before she strode toward her.

  “Milady.” Cynhild had hurriedly curtsied as the queen approached, mortified that she had been caught staring.

  “You are Cynhild, wife of Wibert, are you not?” Aethelhild had asked.

  “Aye.”

  Aethelhild had smiled then, an expression that lit up the world. “Will you walk with me a while, Cynhild? There is something I must talk to you about.”

  A short time later—Cynhild knew what she must do.

  The rain started in earnest as she entered a narrow lane. Folk hurried by, dashing indoors to escape the downpour. Cynhild blinked droplets out of her eyes and hurried on. The home she sought lay three from the end—although she had never visited it, she had always known where it was … just in case things got so bad with Wibert that she needed to seek refuge. There had been moments when she had almost fled here, but she had lacked the courage.

  This was different—with her son’s life at stake she was finally brave.

  She stopped in front of a well-made timber dwelling with a neatly thatched straw roof. Wiping her sweating hands on her skirts and attempting to calm her breathing, Cynhild thought back to Aethelhild’s words.

  “I will not have Aelfwyn and Leofric’s deaths on my conscience. Will you help me free them?”

  Cynhild’s first reaction had been fear; what the queen was asking would condemn them both to death. However, she had listened to Aethelhild all the same, hope burgeoning in her breast when the queen finally turned to her, fixing her with that penetrating gaze of hers.

  They had been walking down the wide thoroughfare that led toward the town’s low gate—a good choice for it was a busy, noisy street, and made it difficult for others to overhear them. Goats bleated as they trotted past, the bells around their necks jingling, and a gaggle of geese honked raucously from a nearby pen.

  “I have some warriors that came with me from Rendlaesham,” Aethelhild told her quietly. “They are loyal to me and will help to free your son and Aelfwyn. Yet our success depends on having help from inside. Do you know any of the ealdorman’s warriors? Would any aid us?”

  Cynhild’s breathing had stopped then.

  Indeed, she knew the warrior the ealdorman had left in charge of the prisoners: Halwend.

  Here she was standing in front of his door.

  Sick with nerves, Cynhild knocked on the sturdy oaken frame. Moments later the door opened and Halwend filled the doorway. He was a big man, broader and taller than her husband, but the years had been kinder to him than to Wibert. Only a few strands of grey laced his thick brown hair, and his blue eyes were as sharp as they had always been. He wore light breeches and a sleeveless linen tunic, revealing the muscular brawn of his shoulders and arms.

  “Cynhild.” He breathed her name, his eyes widening. “God’s bones, what are you doing here?”

  “I need to speak to you,” she replied shakily. “Can I come in?”

  He nodded and stepped aside so that she could enter. Pushing her wet hair from her face, Cynhild walked into a clean, sparsely furnished space, lit only by a glowing fire pit. Something deep within her chest twisted as she stood there. This could have been her home—if only she had been brave enough to follow her heart.

  She turned to him, heart hammering, disconcerted to find Halwend standing right behind her.

  “I’m sorry about Leo,” he rumbled. “He doesn’t deserve this end.”

  His words brought hope to her heart. She looked up at his strong face, a face that bore the scars of a warrior’s life. His nose had been broken more than once and had set with a bump in it, and he bore a thin silver scar on his right cheek, visible through his short beard. It was a fearsome face, but she saw only softness in his eyes as he stared down at her.

  “I always wondered what your home was like,” she said quietly.

  He smiled. “And is it how you imagined?”

  She nodded before looking away. He had never married, and she knew why. The weight of her guilt made it hard to breathe.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  Halwend reached out and hooked a finger under her chin, gently raising her face so that their eyes met once more. “What for?”

  “For not being braver—stronger. I’ve spent years regretting the past.”

  The warrior stared down at her, his expression inscrutable. “There’s little point in such regrets,” he said gently. “Why would you worry over what you cannot change?”

  Tears stung Cynhild’s eyes, but she smiled. “You always were more practical than me.” She paused a moment, gathering her courage. Then she reached out and placed her hand on his chest. To her surprise, she found his pulse was racing. “I know I shouldn’t be here, but you are my only hope,” she whispered.

  He placed a large hand over hers, trapping her palm against his chest.

  “I can’t save Leo now,” he replied, regret in his voice. “Surely you realize that.”

  Cynhild inhaled deeply, steeling herself. “Alone you can’t—but what if you had the queen’s help, and the aid of her men?”

  Halwend inclined his head slightly, his gaze narrowing. “Go on …”

  Cynhild told him everything Aethelhild had confided in her—the entire plan the queen had laid out for them. It was a huge risk—Halwend could kill her for treachery—but this time she would not let her fears hold her back.

  When she finished Halwend did not reply immediately. He watched her under slightly lowered lids, considering her words, and Cynhild grew nervous. What if she had miscalculated? What if she had imagined the depth of his feelings for her? It was also possible he secretly resented her for choosing Wibert over him all those years ago—a decision she had bitterly regretted ever since.

  “Hal
wend …” she said finally, dread rising within her. “What say you?”

  He stared down at her for a moment, his gaze deadly serious, before he reached out and gently stroked her cheek.

  “I will do it,” he murmured, “but on one condition.”

  Suddenly the dwelling felt hot and airless. He was standing so close that Cynhild could hardly breathe. “What’s that?” she eventually whispered.

  His mouth quirked into a half-smile. “That when we leave here—you come with us.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Night Falls over Eoforwic

  Aethelhild felt sick with nerves by the time dusk settled over rainy Eoforwic.

  Likewise, Bishop Wilfrid appeared pale and drawn. His tall, rawboned frame quivered with impatience as he paced the rush-strewn floor in the king and queen’s alcove. Watching him made Aethelhild feel even more on edge, although she knew he was trying to steady himself for what was to come.

  “Are you sure everything is in order?” he asked.

  Aethelhild nodded. It was like playing a game of Cyningtaefl: all the pieces were set upon the board—all that remained was to start moving them. “Cynhild and Halwend both know the part they must play,” she replied quietly, keeping her voice low. They were alone in the alcove, but she didn’t want to risk being overheard, not when she was this close to freedom. “My men are readying the horses as we speak.”

  Wilfrid stopped pacing and faced her. His face was stern, but his eyes were gentle. After Aelfwyn’s disappearance she had increasingly relied on the bishop for companionship. Wilfrid was a good listener, and his gruff manner hid a kind heart. He had made life at Bebbanburg bearable.

  “Can you trust those two?” he asked. “What if they betray us?”

  Aethelhild held his gaze. “We have to believe they won’t. They both stand to gain something from aiding us.”

  The bishop watched her for a few moments before his mouth curved into a rare smile. “You were wasted as a woman, Aethelhild—you would have made a great man, a leader of armies.”