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

by Jayne Castel

  He raised an eyebrow in response. “You don’t exactly smell like roses either, sweeting.”

  Aelfwyn stuck out her tongue at him and stepped naked into the cold, swirling water. She felt Leofric’s gaze upon her, branding her skin, but she pretended not to notice. As much as she wanted to touch him, her need to bathe dominated all else.

  Using a rough cake of lye that Aethelhild and given her, she began to soap her filthy dirt-encrusted skin. She heard a splash a few feet away. Leofric had joined her in their willow-framed bathtub. She caught his sigh of pleasure before he dove under the water. He resurfaced next to her. His gaze slid up her glistening body, taking in her bobbing, pink-tipped breasts, before it rested on her face. His own face was serious; his eyes had deepened to forest-green.

  “I’ve missed you,” he murmured, reaching for her. “More than you can imagine.”

  Aelfwyn sighed, her belly fluttering at his touch, before she reached out and began soaping his chest. “I thought we were both doomed.”

  “We might still be.”

  She glanced up, frowning. “Don’t say that.”

  His gaze snared hers. “We need to be honest, Aelfwyn. An army now hunts us.”

  “We’ll outrun them, we’ll lose them—just like we did last summer.”

  His mouth quirked. “I hope you’re right.”

  She continued soaping his chest before moving down to the firm lines of his belly. Then when she reached under the water, she found his shaft hard in her hands. Aelfwyn gasped, need arrowing through her and igniting a fire deep within her core. She started to tremble.

  Leofric gently took the cake of lye from her and tossed it onto the mossy riverbank. He then turned to her, smiling wickedly. “We can finish bathing later.”

  Aelfwyn opened her mouth to protest, but he yanked her hard against him, his lips slanting across hers. The instant his mouth claimed her own she was lost. A groan rose from deep within her, and she parted her lips to allow his questing tongue entrance. His body, strong and hard, entwined with hers, their slick skin sliding as they twisted together.

  Leofric sank to his knees in the water, dipping his head to her breasts. Aelfwyn tangled her fingers in his wet hair, reveling in how thick and soft it was now, before the heat of his mouth on her engorged nipple drove all thought from her mind. She clutched him against her, moaning softly as he suckled each breast in turn.

  She was panting when he rose once more to his feet. He pulled her against him again, his hands sliding down the length of her back and cupping her bottom. Then in one smooth movement he lifted her high against him and settled his shaft at the entrance to her womb.

  Aelfwyn linked her arms around his neck and looked at him, holding his gaze in hers before she sank down upon him.

  Leofric threw back his head and groaned. “Aelfwyn.”

  She answered his groan with one of her own, clasped her thighs around his hips, and drew him even deeper inside her.

  Her gaze caught his. “You are mine,” she told him fiercely, “and I’ll never give you up—not ever.”

  She kissed him then, wildly, and let her fire consume them both.

  Chapter Forty-one

  The Rising of the Tide

  The shouts of the army tracking them—the cry of their dogs—grew louder, echoing across the marshy fenland they now crossed. Great sheets of rain, bringing with it the scent of the sea, slashed in from the east; a reminder that they traveled close to the entrance of The Wash, the square-mouthed estuary to the northeast.

  Over the next few days they traveled southeast, inching ever closer to their destination. Yet with every furlong they journeyed, Ecgfrith and Godwine’s men drew nearer.

  It was heavy going across the fens. The ground was boggy and treacherous in places, and the narrow road—a trackway built by the Romans—was crumbling and badly potholed.

  They rode two abreast upon the causeway, forced to slow to a brisk trot on the uneven ground. All the while, the fens grew wetter as the heavy rains started to flood the marshes.

  Leofric looked out across the seemingly endless fens, and at the curtains of rain that continued to fall, and felt a pang of misgiving. The sight of the rising water was unnerving.

  Perhaps it had been a mistake to head for Ely. The fenland was usually safe to travel during the warmer months, but this spring rain was unusually heavy. They risked being cut off from their destination by the rising water.

  As he rode, Leofric’s thoughts turned to the events of the past few days. He was still trying to come to terms with all that had happened. However, the hardest thing to swallow was that Cynn—a man he had considered a good friend—had turned him in to Godwine. A pouch of gold coins—that was all their friendship had meant to Cynn in the end. He remembered the last time they had spoken in the meadhall. Cynn had been in a strange mood, off-hand. Leofric’s stomach tightened when he realized Cynn must have betrayed him shortly afterward. He would have liked to return to Lincylene, to confront Cynn, but vengeance was not worth the trouble it would bring down upon him and Aelfwyn.

  Leofric glanced across at where Aelfwyn rode next to him. Despite the rain, she had pushed her hood back. Her hair, the color of sea-foam, was plastered against her skull. Her eyes were bright and clear, her beautiful face set in determination.

  God, how he loved her.

  He might have saved her from Ecgfrith all those months ago, but she had saved him from a shallow, pointless life. She had shown him what it was to truly care for another—the power of courage and strength. To think he had thought her fragile when they had first met.

  He had never been so wrong.

  Her courage had spurred Aethelhild to come to her aid—Aelfwyn had saved them all.

  Leofric and Aelfwyn’s time alone together since leaving Eoforwic had been stolen. Since making love in the river, they had not had gotten the chance to lie together again. He treasured the memory of that coupling, the wild passion and hunger she had unleashed upon him. No luckier man had ever lived.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  Leofric came out of his reverie to find Aelfwyn watching him. He flashed her a grin, trying to ignore the caterwauling of the wolfhounds on the horizon behind them. The beasts were out for blood. “Wicked thoughts.”

  Her eyes twinkled at that, and she laughed. “You will have to share them with me later.”

  He held her gaze, his grin fading. “I intend to.”

  The company took a short break around noon, upon a hillock of reeds that afforded them a clear view of the surrounding fens.

  “The water is rising fast.” Halwend confirmed Leofric’s own fears as he passed him a piece of stale bread. “Much faster than I’ve ever seen.”

  “It’s the spring tide.” Aethelhild stepped up next to them with Bishop Wilfrid at her side. Exhaustion lined her face, but her blue eyes were as sharp as ever. Next to her the bishop was pale with fatigue.

  “It flows in from The Wash at this time of year and can affect the fens,” Aethelhild told them. “But with this heavy rain …” Her voice trailed away as she considered the consequences of the torrential deluge that had followed them from Eoforwic.

  Halwend’s expression grew stern upon listening to Aethelhild, and his gaze shifted to where they hunters bristled against the northwestern horizon. “Hounds of hell,” he muttered, “they’re going to catch us.”

  “How far till Ely?” Leofric asked Aethelhild.

  “I’ve never traveled to the isle from this direction,” she admitted, her smooth brow furrowing, but I’d say we should reach it by the day’s end.”

  Leofric nodded, glancing back at Halwend. The warrior was sucking his teeth, his gaze fixed upon their pursuers. “That’s too long,” Halwend said. “We’ll never make it.”

  The company set off once more, riding as fast as they dared along the boggy causeway. Windræs made easy work of the journey, demonstrating once again his enormous endurance and strength. However, Aelfwyn’s sturdy pony was starting to fl
ag. The mare carried her head low, her ears flattened back as she tried her best to keep up with Windræs’s long stride.

  They had traveled a short distance from the hillock when Leofric heard one of the men behind him shout out. “They’re closing in!”

  He twisted in the saddle and peered behind them. Sure enough, Ecgfrith and Godwine’s army were little more than four furlongs behind now. The hounds raced out front; their cries chilled Leofric’s blood.

  “Ride!” he shouted. “Ride—now!”

  Halwend and the others answered his call, leaning forward in the saddle and urging their horses forward into a wild gallop along the causeway. It was dangerous to travel so fast on such uneven footing, but the alternative was capture.

  The thunder of hooves echoed across the marshes.

  Aelfwyn’s pony was wheezing, its mouth foaming as it galloped. The poor creature would not last much longer at this rate.

  “God save us!” Aethelhild’s terrified voice cut through the din. “Look to the north!”

  Leofric twisted his head left, as bid, his heart leaping in his chest when he saw what had caused Aethelhild’s panic.

  The last time he had looked in that direction, toward The Wash, there had been nothing but an expanse of water and reeds blending into rolling mist. Now a hill of water rose from the flooded fens, like a creature of the deep—and it was rushing straight toward them.

  Leofric considered himself brave. He had fought and killed and had faced his own death with courage. Yet the sight of that glistening wall of water rushing across the marshes, filled him with such terror that he almost forgot himself.

  The world was ending—a great flood that would drown them all.

  There was no time to do anything but ride. Sensing the terror that swept through the column of riders, the horses raced as if Nithhogg—the beast of the underworld—was on their tails; even Aelfwyn’s pony found one last reserve of strength.

  Before them the land rose. Leofric spied rushes waving in the wind and hope rose within him.

  They needed to get to higher ground if they had any chance of survival.

  The company thundered up the road, the first riders reaching the top of the hill. Leofric twisted his head left once more as he rode, and wished he had not. He and Aelfwyn galloped toward the end of the column, and the glistening wave was barely half a furlong distant.

  Beside him Aelfwyn bent low over her pony’s neck. Her face was chalk-white and terrified, but she wisely kept her gaze upon her destination—the grassy knoll before them.

  They galloped up the incline, just as the water surged in.

  Leofric heard the screams of horses and realized that some of the riders behind them had not made it. There were still number of them riding behind Leofric and Aelfwyn, but there was nothing anyone could do to save them.

  Leofric and Aelfwyn reached the crest of the hill, where the others had stopped. Then Leofric reined Windræs around.

  Only the two men riding directly behind him and Aelfwyn were safe, the rest disappeared under the swirling water—shrieking, kicking, and flailing as the tide swept them under.

  Their pursuers were less than a furlong behind them. Leofric’s gaze moved to the army of at least one hundred men who had been so close to catching their quarry. He watched the rising tide take them—swallow them whole.

  Men, horses, and dogs all went under. The tide swept across the causeway and plucked them off the road like children’s toys. Their screams of terror rent the air, and Leofric resisted the urge to cover his ears. He stared at the devastation, hardly daring to believe his eyes.

  Cuthbert had spoken of the end of the world, a great flood that would drown them all. Had the prior been right?

  Next to him Aelfwyn sat rigid in the saddle, her face stricken. He brought Windræs in close to her and, reaching out, placed a hand on her thigh squeezing gently. He had no words of consolation; no explanations that would make sense of what had just happened. He was struggling to accept it himself.

  Glancing around him, he saw they now stood upon a tiny island. An angry sea of briny water bubbled and surged around them. The hill was barely high enough to save them—just a few more yards and the tide would have claimed them too. The rain continued to fall, peppering their skin and lashing across their faces; but Leofric barely noticed.

  “Christ on the cross,” Halwend blasphemed. “What caused that?”

  Next to him Aethelhild shook her head and gazed up at the thick cloud cover above, as if seeking the answers. “I have no idea,” she said quietly.

  Beside her, Bishop Wilfrid crossed himself.

  “There are some spring tides when the moon rides larger than usual in the night sky.” One of the warriors nearby spoke up. He was a stocky, red-haired young man with a florid face. “My grandmother told me of them. If you get such a moon, a spring tide, and torrential rains—a great flood will follow.”

  Halwend let out a muttered string of curses and looked around him. His stallion danced nervously, and he leaned forward, stroking its neck to calm it. “We’re trapped here.”

  “For the moment,” the red-haired warrior replied. “But the tide will recede soon enough.”

  Leofric’s shoulders sagged at this news. They had lost six of their group, and watched an entire army swept to their deaths—but they were alive. Their pursuers were gone, and they would soon be able to continue to Ely.

  He turned to Aelfwyn, his gaze meeting hers. She managed a tremulous smile. Leofric took her hand, it was ice-cold, but her grip was firm.

  “Is it over?” she whispered.

  Leofric smiled back, hardly daring to hope, not after being hunted for so long. “Aye,” he replied gently. “It is.”

  Epilogue

  Different Paths

  Six days later …

  The Isle of Ely sat in the midst of the fens. A town perched upon it, the high roof of its abbey rising over a flat, featureless landscape. High wooden ramparts encircled the settlement, with watchtowers at each corner. Ely’s isolation had been both a blessing and a curse over the years—and its inhabitants had learned to protect it well.

  Inside the town, in the wide yard before the gates, four travelers prepared to depart. A crowd of well-wishers gathered to see them off.

  Aelfwyn glanced up at the sky and smiled. It was a still, sunlit morning. The smoke from the thatched roofs of Ely rose vertically into a bright blue sky. The marshes were alive with the sound of chattering insects.

  It was a good day to set off on a journey.

  “Are you sure you will not stay longer?” Aethelhild interrupted Aelfwyn’s reverie. She stood a few yards away, regal despite the plain homespun robes that now clad her and the veil that covered her glossy raven hair. Next to Aethelhild stood Bishop Wilfrid and her cousin, Aethelthryth of Ely. A smaller, feistier version of Aethelhild—and a few years older—Abbess Aethelthryth had welcomed them into her home with open-arms. Aelfwyn would be forever grateful.

  She smiled at Aethelhild and went to her, enfolding the older woman in a hug. “We should go,” she told her, “before the king rallies more men to come after us.”

  “I don’t think he will,” Aethelhild replied. “It will take him a long while to recover from his losses on the marshes … nonetheless I understand your urge to leave. You have your own path to follow.” Aethelhild broke off here, her gaze shifting to where Leofric, Halwend, and Cynhild stood quietly behind Aelfwyn. “You all do.”

  Aelfwyn pulled away from Aethelhild blinking back tears. “I’ll never forget you, or what you did for us.”

  Aethelhild laughed. “I’m not completely unselfish, Aelfwyn—you know I also did it for myself.”

  Aelfwyn smiled. “I’m glad you did.” It was true. Although the life Aethelhild had chosen—one dedicated to God—was not one she wanted for herself, she understood that it was the right choice for her friend. Aethelhild looked radiant this morning, her eyes glowing in the morning sun.

  She had found peace, and Aelfwyn w
as glad for it.

  The four travelers rode out of Ely into the glittering marshes, two abreast upon the causeway. Nearby, wading birds dug for food, and a cloud of midges hovered over the reed-beds. Aelfwyn and Leofric rode out front with Halwend and Cynhild bringing up the rear. It was such a still, silent morning that the clip-clop of their horses’ hooves seemed to echo across the marshes.

  Aelfwyn was relieved the weather had cleared. The past few days had been sunny and warm with the promise of the coming summer. After that journey from Eoforwic, she never wanted to see rain again. Even now the memory of that terrible surge of water, the screams of the men it swept away, haunted her in still moments. It would take a long time for the images to fade.

  Around ten furlongs south of Ely, the travelers reached a crossroads. Here, the causeway led in four directions: north back to the isle, south toward the lands of the East Saxons, east toward Rendlaesham, or west toward the border of Mercia.

  Aelfwyn and Leofric reined in their mounts and waited for Halwend and Cynhild to catch up with them. Leofric patted Windræs’s sleek neck and glanced across at Aelfwyn and her mount, before he gave a teasing grin.

  “You had a stable full of horses to choose from—why did you choose this one?”

  Aelfwyn reached forward and pretended to cup her pony’s furry ears. “Don’t listen to him, Morgensteorra.” She had named her plucky mare Morningstar, for the large white star on its forehead. “He doesn’t mean to sound ungrateful.” She then gave Leofric a stern look. “This pony kept me safe on the journey here—I’m not leaving her behind.”

  A smile spread across Leofric’s face. “Your soft heart is just one of the many reasons I love you.”

  Aelfwyn smiled back, warmth spreading through her body at his words. She would never tire of hearing him say that.

  “Ready to go our separate ways?” Halwend reined up next to them. His dun stallion tossed its head, clearly impatient to be off. Beside him, Cynhild rode an elegant grey mare.