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

by Jayne Castel

  Aethelhild gave a soft laugh before shaking her head. She knew he meant it as a compliment, but the comment stung. “I know a woman’s lot isn’t an easy one—but I’m glad I wasn’t born a man.” She met his gaze squarely then. “I intend to make up for lost time once we leave here—to make my life a worthy one.”

  Aelfwyn sagged against the wooden stockade, barely conscious.

  Night was falling—the grey of a rainy day merging into a shadowy twilight. The square inside the high gate had emptied out now, their tormentors having grown tired of sloshing around in the mud while the rain pelted down. The smell of cook fires, the roasting of mutton, and the aroma of baking pies caused her belly to ache with hunger.

  Time had lost any meaning for Aelfwyn. The days she had spent trapped inside these wooden jaws had blurred into one long nightmare. She and Leofric had long since stopped talking, each of them retreating into caves inside their minds, a place of refuge where the misery had not yet touched.

  Soon the end would come. Aelfwyn tried not to dwell on what awaited them. An axe blade to the neck would be a clean death at least—provided the ealdorman sharpened the blade first.

  Tears of despair stung Aelfwyn’s closed eyelids. The past few months had taught her so much—but she had only just begun to live. Leofric had brought such joy into her life and soon Godwine of Eoforwic would take him from her before ending her own life.

  Aelfwyn swallowed. Her throat was dry.

  The warrior, Halwend, had visited them earlier. He had scooped ladles of water out of a pail and held it up for them to drink before feeding them both pottage and bread in turn. Aelfwyn had been surprised the warrior had taken this task on; surely this was a role for one of the women. She had been too hungry and thirsty to question him.

  Leofric had also said little as he ate and drank, and Halwend was likewise taciturn. It was only when the warrior rose to leave, picking up the empty wooden platter and pail as he did so, that he spoke.

  “I’ll be back at dusk with some hot broth—you both need to keep up your strength.”

  Strength. Aelfwyn felt as weak as newborn lamb. Aethelhild’s mysterious visit had made her believe that help was coming, but with the passing of time that fragile hope ebbed away.

  The splash of heavy footfalls behind them now alerted Aelfwyn to someone’s arrival. A moment later, as he had promised, Halwend appeared with an iron pot of steaming broth in one hand and a smoking pitch torch in the other.

  He hunkered down in front of Leofric, meeting his eye. “Bearing up?”

  Leofric snorted. “Aye—just enjoying the rain.”

  Halwend grinned. “At least you smell better for it.”

  He filled a ladle with broth and lifted it to Leofric’s lips. “Drink up, lad.”

  Leofric did as bid, although his gaze remained upon the warrior. “Why all the concern,” he asked finally. “You’re fussing over me like a nursemaid.”

  Halwend’s grin widened. “Your mother made me promise to look after you.” He fed Leofric another two ladles of broth before shifting across to Aelfwyn. As she sipped at the rich rabbit gruel, Aelfwyn noticed that Halwend’s gaze was shifting around the empty square. He was taking careful note of his surroundings. Her stomach twisted; the ealdorman had done well leaving Halwend in charge of them in his absence. The warrior missed nothing.

  Aethelhild will never be able to free us with this man watching over us.

  Halwend finished feeding her and rose to his feet. He stared down at them, his expression turning serious. “Ready yourselves,” he said quietly. “The time is coming.”

  Without another word he left them, his heavy tread squelching across the mud back to the hall. Once Halwend was out of earshot, Leofric gave a low chuckle.

  “I don’t believe it—the old dog has turned on its master.”

  Renewed hope flickered in Aelfwyn’s breast. “He’ll help us?”

  The gleam of Leofric’s grin was white in the gathering dark. “It looks that way.”

  Aelfwyn tentatively tried to shift her weight. She had been kneeling in the mud for so long she felt welded to the earth. The pain in her limbs when she tried to move them nearly made her cry out. Hissing between her teeth, she persisted, stretching out one leg behind her and then the other.

  Next to her she heard Leofric stifle a groan as he did the same. “Devil’s turds,” he muttered. “I’m a cripple.”

  Aelfwyn gritted her teeth and tried rotating her ankles, one at a time. The numbness was fading, only to be replaced with agonizing pins and needles. “I don’t think I can walk,” she gasped.

  The pain was just beginning to fade when she heard the first signs of something happening on the perimeters of the square.

  The rain was hammering down now. The storm hung directly overhead. Thunder boomed and then moments later lightning flashed, illuminating the night in eerie silver. Aelfwyn raised her head, blinking water out of her eyes, and caught a glimpse of two men wrestling against the high gate. A seax blade flashed, and one of the figures crumpled into the mud.

  Lightning lit up the square once more, and she saw cloaked figures moving around the edge of the inner palisade. Then darkness blanketed the square once more, and through the hiss of rain she caught the dull thud of fists against flesh and the scrape of iron against wet leather.

  “It’s starting,” Leofric said quietly. “Are you ready, min heorte?”

  Min heorte—my heart. The endearment made Aelfwyn’s throat constrict. Would she have the chance to touch him, to hold him once more? Hope hung by a thread, a fragile flame flickering in the darkness. One cold breath, and it would go out.

  An instant later, she heard the splashes of running feet crossing the square behind them. Cloaked figures appeared either side of the stocks. Aelfwyn heard the grating of iron as the locks sheared off, and the creak of hinges when the top half of the stocks came away.

  Aelfwyn almost wept with relief—she was free.

  “Come.” A woman’s voice sounded in Aelfwyn’s ear. “We need to move—now.”

  Aethelhild.

  It took two of them to help Aelfwyn to her feet, and she cried out in pain when she tried to straighten her legs and bear weight upon them.

  “You can manage it.” A man spoke gruffly next to her. Aelfwyn recognized his voice—Bishop Wilfrid.

  Next to her two warriors had lifted Leofric out of the stocks. He looped his arms over their shoulders, letting them support him as they headed across the square.

  “We must follow.” Aethelhild’s voice was hard with urgency. “There’s no time to waste.”

  Aelfwyn stumbled her way out of the market square, grateful that Aethelhild and Wilfrid were there to help her. A sheet of lightning illuminated the sky above them, and she caught a glimpse of her friend and the bishop. They were both wearing thick, hooded traveling cloaks.

  They followed Leofric and the two warriors under the high gate and down the hill to where a group of cloaked figures on horseback stood waiting. A cluster of riderless horses, all saddled and ready to go, stood on the edge of the group.

  The rain was coming down in great sheets, causing a roar as it gushed down the street in rivers, turning the dirt to a sea of mud. Although visibility was poor, the foul weather proved to be their ally this evening. The folk of Eoforwic huddled inside around their firepits, and the streets were deserted. There would be no one, save the guards at the low gate, to witness their escape.

  “Mount up,” a man commanded. Aelfwyn recognized Halwend’s voice.

  With Aethelhild and Wilfrid’s help she scrambled up onto the back of a stocky bay pony with a large white star across its forehead. Next to her, Leofric managed to mount a large bay gelding unassisted—Aelfwyn’s heart leaped when she realized it was Windræs.

  Moments later, all the company—around twenty of them—were mounted. Halwend led the way down the hill to the low gate. He rode a massive dun stallion, and was the only one of the company who had not pulled up his hood. The drumming
rain plastered his hair to his scalp; his strong-featured face was set in harsh, determined lines.

  Aelfwyn followed the others down to the gate. Her mind was a jumble—how had Aethelhild managed to organize this? Halwend was the ealdorman’s most trusted warrior. Who were these other men who joined them?

  At the low gate, Halwend and four others swung down from their horses and drew their swords. They met the cluster of spearmen who formed a line against the heavy oak and iron gate that barred the way out of town. The grunt of men fighting, followed by the clang of iron against iron and the meaty thud of blades slicing through flesh, rose above the hiss of the rain.

  Surely someone will hear us.

  Aelfwyn cast a glimpse over her shoulder at the street beyond, half-expecting to see a horde of enraged warriors thundering toward them. Yet the road was deserted.

  Halwend cut down the last hapless spearman to face him before ordering some of his companions to drag the bodies out of the way. Then he and another of his companions unbarred the gate.

  They rode out of Eoforwic into a squall of driving rain.

  Blinded, Aelfwyn guided her pony across the bridge, over the turbid River Ouse. Many of the riders carried smoking pitch torches aloft, the only means they had of lighting the way. However, the rain was doing its best to extinguish them.

  Grasping the slippery reins for dear life, her thighs aching already from gripping on, Aelfwyn found herself in the middle of the company.

  Fear she might fall off and be trampled underfoot gave way to the thrill of freedom. Her heart pounded in time with the pony’s hoof beats. Aelfwyn leaned forward and gave herself up to the moment. The company thundered on, sweeping her away into the night.

  Chapter Forty

  Outlaws

  They stopped for a short while just after dawn, under a stand of spreading oaks, and broke their fast with bread and cheese. A wet, grey dawn spread over a landscape of crumpled hills with clumps of woodland nestled in-between.

  The rain had not ceased all that night—but the company paid it little heed as they continued their flight south. They had to make the most of their advantage, for Ecgfrith and Godwine were due back later in the day. Halwend pointed out that owing to the bad weather they were likely to return earlier from the hunt.

  Standing under the trees, with fat droplets of water dripping on her head, Aelfwyn was able to take proper note of her traveling companions for the first time since leaving Eoforwic. Aethelhild stood next to Bishop Wilfrid—the two of them looked as bedraggled as Aelfwyn felt.

  “Where are we headed?” Aelfwyn asked Aethelhild.

  Her friend looked up and their gazes met. “Ely,” she replied. “My cousin runs an abbey there.”

  Aelfwyn found herself smiling—Aethelhild was taking them home, back to the Kingdom of the East Angles. Ely—the Isle of Eels—was an isolated town in the middle of the fens, surrounded by perilous marshes. It was as good a place as any for Aethelhild to make a new life for herself.

  A few yards away, Halwend offered a piece of bread to the cloaked figure next to him. A slender, pale hand took the bread before another pushed back the deep cowl concealing the individual’s face.

  Next to her, Aelfwyn heard Leofric’s sharp intake of breath. “Mōder!”

  Just four strides took him across the clearing to where Cynhild stood. The woman wept as she threw herself into her son’s arms. Beside them Halwend remained silent, a gentle smile softening the severe lines of his face. Aelfwyn watched mother and son reunited, letting them have a few moments alone before she hesitantly approached.

  Eyes gleaming, Leofric stepped back from Cynhild and cupped her face with his hands. “I can’t believe you were behind this.”

  Cynhild laughed softly. “I only had a part in freeing you.” She glanced across at Halwend, her eyes shining. “Halwend and Aethelhild did the rest.”

  Leofric shook his head. “How did you get past Berhtulf and Wybert?”

  Halwend grinned. “Aethelhild laced their supper with ground Bruisewort root—they were puking and shitting their guts out in the privy when we left the hall.”

  A few yards away Aethelhild was smiling faintly, clearly pleased with herself.

  “With Berhtulf and Wybert out of the way, we just had the guards in the square, and at the high and low gates to deal with,” Halwend concluded.

  Leofric stepped back from them, putting an arm around Aelfwyn’s shoulders. She wrinkled her nose; he smelled as ripe as she most likely did—both of them needed to bathe and change their clothing. Leofric did not notice her smell for his gaze was still riveted upon his mother.

  “So you’ve left him?” he asked finally.

  Cynhild nodded, her face growing serious. “Are you angry?”

  Leofric shook his head. “He disowned me and then went hunting with the man who condemned me to death. Fæder deserves to lose you—you’ve always been too good for him.”

  His gaze flicked from his mother to Halwend. Aelfwyn sensed the closeness between Cynhild and the warrior, the way Leofric’s mother’s face shone when she looked at Halwend—Leofric had clearly not missed this either.

  Seeing the confusion on her son’s face, Cynhild gave a soft smile, tinged with melancholy.

  “My father promised me to Wibert when I was barely twelve winters old—he was the son of a renowned warrior and a good match. But by the time I wedded your father, just before my sixteenth winter, I’d already given my heart to Halwend.” Cynhild paused here, her gaze clouding with sadness, before she continued. “Wibert never knew that I loved another, and I doubt he would have cared anyway.” She glanced over at Halwend who was watching her intently. “Halwend came to me on the eve before my handfasting and begged me to run away with him—but I was shackled to my father’s will and could not bear the thought of defying him. Not a day has gone by since that I do not regret that.”

  Halwend reached out and took her hand, gently enfolding it with his. “I waited for you,” he murmured. “I told you I would.”

  Cynhild smiled back. “All my children are grown, there was no longer any reason for me to stay with Wibert—a man who has ever treated me like his theow. It was time to go.”

  Watching them Leofric had gone still. “I had no idea either of you felt this way,” he said softly.

  Cynhild stepped forward, reached up, and stroked her son’s face. “You weren’t meant to.”

  Two days out from Eoforwic, they heard the first signs of pursuit. The company rode on higher ground, toward the crest of a windswept hill, when the far off baying of hounds reached them.

  Aelfwyn’s heart sank at this sound—it brought back memories of her flight from Bebbanburg with Leofric. The king’s men had been so close to catching them that day, if the river had not carried them away.

  She glanced over at where Leofric rode beside her, their gazes meeting.

  At the front of the column, Halwend reined in his stallion and turned back to face the way they had come. His keen gaze surveyed the folds of hills to the north before his expression turned grim.

  “Godwine’s sent many after us,” the warrior told them. “One hundred warriors at least.”

  Leofric gave a low, humorless laugh. “It won’t just be the ealdorman out for our blood—my father and the king will have sent men to hunt us down.”

  Aethelhild spoke up then. “My husband loathes me, but that doesn’t mean he’ll let me go easily. His pride will be wounded.”

  “And mine will happily throttle me with his bare hands if he ever finds me,” Cynhild added.

  Halwend glanced over at Cynhild, his face darkening. “He’ll have to kill me first.”

  Aelfwyn looked to the north. The rain had ceased for a spell, although the sky was still heavy with moisture and there were dark clouds to the east, threatening more bad weather. She easily spotted the army Halwend had seen—such a large group of men was hard to miss. They were still some way back; a bristling carpet of bobbing heads and spears, the yaps and howls of their
hounds still faint. However, they were traveling fast.

  She turned back to Halwend. “Can we outrun them?”

  “For the time being,” he replied.

  “We’d better hope so.” Leofric spoke up. “Twenty against one hundred will not end in our favor.”

  They rode through the day with no further breaks, traveling at a swift canter southeast. They crossed the River Trente at a village called Winthorpe—a pretty hamlet sitting amongst a patchwork of well-tended fields. The old wooden bridge creaked in protest as they rode across it in pairs. The Trente surged beneath, swollen from the heavy rains.

  By the time dusk fell the weather had closed in again. They camped near a tributary of the Trente, making sure to pitch their tents upon higher ground. The warriors saw to the horses and lit fires inside the hide tents. Soon the aroma of roasting rabbit drifted into the air. Despite the pursuers on their tail, Halwend had deemed it safe enough to lights fires tonight. A thick, porridge-like mist had closed in, making it near to impossible for the king’s men to find them in the darkness.

  The rain pounded down from leaden skies as Aelfwyn and Leofric made their way down to the river’s edge to bathe.

  They had chosen a bend in the river, far from the swiftly moving current, where it looked safe to enter the water without being swept away. The glow from their camp’s fires receded behind them although Leofric carried a pitch torch to light their way. He staked the torch into the soft ground, under the sheltering boughs of an old willow, to prevent the torch from going out. The draping willow branches surrounded them like a living bower while, just beyond, rain stippled the dark surface of the river.

  Aelfwyn shucked off her filthy clothes. It felt odd to undress under the rain, but she liked the feel of it on her skin.

  Leofric yanked off his tunic and screwed his face up. “I stink like a sty.”

  Aelfwyn gave him an arch look. “I didn’t like to say …”