Nightfall till Daybreak (The Kingdom of the East Angles Book 2) (12 page)

To Aidan’s right, he spotted Lothar and Aedilhild deep in
conversation. Oblivious to the other revelers whirling around them, they shared
a cup of mead while they talked, their heads bowed together. He had to admit
they made a striking couple: Lothar hulking and blond, Aedilhild slender and
dark haired. As he watched, Lothar took hold of Aedilhild’s hand and whispered
something in her ear. She looked up at him, her face flushed, before nodding.
Then, without a backwards glance, the lovers stepped away from the fire and
disappeared into the darkness.

Lothar had got his wish tonight then; come daybreak Aedilhild
would be his.

 Watching them go, Aidan felt an odd pang, a constriction in
his chest that cut through his resentment at Sigeberht.

He felt alone.

A girl approached him. She was blonde and winsome, with
flowers in her hair. She beckoned for him to join the dance around the fire. On
other occasions, on other nights, Aidan would have been only too pleased to
join her, but tonight he felt so wearied by life that he could not dredge up
the slightest enthusiasm.

Aidan shook his head and turned away from the girl. He drained
the last of his mead, before tossing his cup aside. He was in no mood for
celebrating.

***

“I’m thirsty,” Freya declared, putting down her sewing and
climbing to her feet. She glanced down at Hilda. “I’m going to fetch a cup of
water. Do you want one as well?”

Hilda nodded, not bothering to look up from her mending.
“Thank you, Freya.”

Stretching her cramped limbs, Freya made her way over to the
large wooden water butt in the corner of the hall. She picked up a long handled
ladle and dipped it into the barrel, only to find it empty.

Freya cursed under her breath. Hereric should have refilled
the water butt this afternoon. She swept her gaze across the interior of the
Great Hall, but the lad was nowhere to be seen. If Freya wanted some water, she
would have to fetch some from the well in the stable yard.

Freya took two empty pails and made her way outside. The air
was fresh and laced with wood-smoke. The strains of a lute and the chorus of
voices in the orchard beyond echoed through the still night. Freya carefully
picked her way down the steps. The torches that burned in brackets either side
of the doors only illuminated the first few steps, casting the rest into
shadow. Only the silvery light of the moon lit Freya’s path as she reached the
bottom of the steps and turned right, towards the well.

There were two wells in Rendlaesham: one in the center of
market square, used by townsfolk, and one outside the Great Hall, for the king
and his household. Carrying water was a regular and tiring chore for Freya. 
She had been pleased when another
theow
had been given the task today.
She would clip Hereric’s ears when she saw him next – if she was not allowed to
shirk her duties then neither should he.

Reaching the well, Freya lowered a bucket into the black pit
before her. A rope had been tied around the bucket’s iron handle. Freya leaned
up against the cool stone and listened for the splash of the bucket hitting the
water. She filled the first bucket and had just hoisted it up over the edge of
the well when she caught sight of a man’s silhouette crossing the stable yard
towards her.

Freya’s eyes had now adjusted to the darkness; the full moon
illuminated her surroundings well enough to recognize the man when he drew
closer.

It was Aidan.

“Sweet Freya.” He stopped before her. “It’s late to be
collecting water. Will the king not let you go out and join the revelers?”

Freya let out a snort and poured the water from the bucket
into one of the pails she had brought with her.

“The king will not let me out of his sight for long,” she
snapped. “Unlike Hereric, who should have refilled the water butt, I cannot
leave the hall. The shirker decided to run off and enjoy himself instead.”

Freya cringed at the tone of her voice.

I sound like a harridan.

Yet, her abrasive reply was merely a response to this man’s
presence; Aidan made her nervous, although she was determined not to let him
see just how much.

“How old are you Freya?” Aidan asked, stepping closer. She
could now see his face. The smooth planes of his cheeks glowed palely in the
moonlight, while his eyes gleamed out of shadowed sockets. His nearness made
her mouth go dry.

“Twenty winters,” Freya replied, stepping backwards against
the well. “Why?”

“Too young to sound so bitter.”

Freya stiffened and felt the heat of embarrassment creep up
her chest towards her neck. She was grateful that the darkness hid it. Yet, at
the same time, Aidan’s words goaded her.

“Do I not have reason to be bitter?” she replied, her voice
sharp. “I’m a
nithing
now. I had a life before coming here. It was a
simple one but it was mine.”

Aidan did not reply immediately. He appeared to be thinking
upon her words. When he finally answered, his voice was tinged with sadness.

“I tried to convince Sigeberht to release you but in some
things he is bull-headed. I know this is not the life you deserve but at least
you grew up free; I would like to have such memories. I know what it is like to
live as a
theow
, for I was Sigeberht’s slave for many years.”

“You were?” Freya stared at him, incredulous. She found it
hard to imagine Aidan as anyone’s slave.

“I grew up in Connacht, on the western coast of Ireland. I had
just passed my tenth winter when a Saxon raiding party attacked my village.
They raped and killed my mother and slit my father’s throat – but they spared
my life, and the lives of a handful of children they took as slaves,” Aidan
paused here. The brutality of his story had made Freya’s breath still in her
chest. She would never have thought he had lived through something so awful. It
was true that she had lost her own father, but not in such cruel circumstances.

“What happened to you then?” she whispered.

“After they had finished with my village they travelled down
the coast, burning, raping and killing as they went. Eventually, they had
nearly thirty slaves, all children. We sailed to northern Gaul and there, at a
slaver’s market, Sigeberht bought me. He kept me as his slave for six years
before giving me my freedom.”

“And you stayed with him afterwards?”

Aidan’s shrug was barely discernible in the shadows.

“He treated me well. Once I was free I could have returned to
Ireland, but there was nothing left for me there. With Sigeberht I had a chance
to make something of myself. It took me another decade, but I eventually became
his most favored retainer and the leader of his army.”

Aidan’s voice trailed off here. Freya had caught the
bitterness in his voice. He had seen her witness his humiliation that morning.
Aidan was a proud man, she reflected, and one who revealed very little of his
true self to others; even in telling the harrowing story of his past.

“So I should bow to
wyrd
then?” Freya said. “As you
did, and be grateful for it.”

Aidan stepped closer still, so that they stood just a hand’s
span apart. Freya pressed herself up against the well, cornered. She could feel
the heat emanating from him, the whisper of his breath on her cheek. His
nearness made her feel dizzy and weak. She looked down and tried to ignore her
rapidly beating heart. He was too close. She needed to put distance between
them. Yet she did not move away.

“
Wyrd bith ful araed
,” he whispered.

Fate is everything.

Aidan gently took hold of her chin and brought her face up
towards him. A moment later, his lips touched hers.

Just like on the shore at Woodbridge Haven, she was powerless
to resist him. The feel of his mouth on hers, the gentle pressure and softness
of his lips, caught her in an invisible vice. She sighed and a moment later,
his arms wrapped around her. He drew her against him.

Desire exploded inside Freya – wild and overwhelming. Her lips
parted under his, and she was lost. She heard Aidan groan, deep in his throat,
and his mouth moved hungrily over hers. His hands slid up the length of her
back and tangled in her hair. Unthinking, Freya pressed herself up against him,
her own hands moving up over the hard planes of his chest to the breadth of his
shoulders. Her heart pounded in her ears as he pushed her back against the well
and pressed his hips against hers.

She gasped, feeling the hardness of his arousal against her.
Aidan kissed her deeply in response, cupping one of her breasts with one hand
and sliding his other hand up her thigh. She felt his hand stroke her naked
skin and shuddered with the pleasure that even this simple touch provoked in
her.

“Freya,” he groaned, tearing his mouth from hers and kissing
the column of her neck.

The sound of his voice made Freya ache to be even closer to
him. She felt boneless and without a will of her own in his arms. His mouth
sought hers once more and she kissed him back, reckless to the consequences.

The sound of male voices, raised in drunken song, intruded
upon their intimacy.

With a muffled curse, Aidan stepped away from the well and
moved back into the shadows, pulling Freya with him. Hidden under the low eave
of one of the stables, they watched the silhouettes of men stumble and sway
across the stable yard.

Freya recognized Ecgric’s voice, raised above the others.
Thank the gods she had not been out here on her own when he returned from the
celebrations. Sober, Ecgric the Eager was a lecherous pest, drunk she wagered
he would try to rape her without compunction. She and Aidan remained silent and
still in the shadows while the party climbed the steps and disappeared inside
the Great Hall.

Aidan stood behind Freya; his body pressed the length of hers.
He ran his hands up, over her belly, to her breasts, where he cupped them. He
trailed gentle kisses up her neck and Freya’s body trembled in response.

“I cannot stop touching you Freya,” he whispered, his voice
strained. “If you do not leave now, I will take you here – whatever the
consequences.”

His words reached Freya through the haze of passion that had
addled her senses like strong mead. His meaning was sobering. Part of her did
not care; there was a wild side to her that longed for him to kiss her till she
no longer cared. Yet, another part of her, the cold voice of reason that had
taken care of her till now, warned Freya that she should heed his words.
Abandoning herself to a tryst against the stable wall would seem folly in the
cold light of day. If Sigeberht discovered she was a maid no longer, he would
not treat her as mercifully as he had when she had escaped.

Worse still, if it resulted in her carrying Aidan’s child she
would be ruined.

Freya gathered what little will remained and wrenched herself
from Aidan’s arms. Then, she turned towards him and backed towards the well.
She could not see his face, for he stood in the shadows, and was grateful for
it.

“Then I shall leave.” Her voice was tremulous and she hated
herself for it. It took all her strength not to fling herself back into his
arms. He had woven an enchantment about her and she had not yet broken free of
it.

He said nothing but she could feel his gaze upon her. Gathering
her wits, Freya picked up the one pail of water she had managed to fill and
fled across the stable yard. The water sloshed over the edge of the pail and
soaked her shift but she paid it no heed. Reaching the steps she began to
climb, her legs weak and shaking.

Behind her, the drums of Beltaine continued their rhythmic
tattoo.   

Chapter Twelve

Freya leaned her broom against the wall and straightened her
aching back. She had almost finished one of her most hated chores: sweeping out
the Great Hall. Once a month, Sigeberht insisted that the old rush-matting was
taken out, the floors swept and fresh matting brought in. It was a task that
took her and three other slaves an entire afternoon.

The day was hot and sweat slid down Freya’s back. Her homespun
shift clung uncomfortably to her skin and was beginning to chafe her under the
arms.

“Here Freya, let me sweep for a while.” Hilda approached her
and took hold of the broom before Freya could argue. “There’s still soiled
rush-matting to go outside. The cart’s in the stable yard.”

“Very well.” Freya was grateful to take a break from sweeping.
Being tall, the task made her back ache terribly after a while. She made her
way over to the water butt in the corner of the hall and helped herself to a
ladle of cool water.

Meanwhile, Hilda started vigorously sweeping where Freya had
left off. Freya watched the girl with awe. They had become close friends over
the two moon cycles she had been here. Despite everything that had happened to
her, Hilda was a cheerful, straightforward companion, who dealt with her
servitude by keeping herself focused on the endless stream of tasks she was
saddled with. The only time that Freya caught a glimpse of Hilda’s sadness was
when they sat together at the day’s end, in a rare moment of quiet before going
to sleep. Some mornings Hilda would greet her with red and puffy eyes, and
Freya knew the girl had cried for most of the night. Yet, for most of their
time together, it was Hilda’s strength that kept Freya going.

Freya made her way over to the soiled rush-matting and picked
it up, wrinkling her nose as she did so. Although she despised this chore, she
could see why Sigeberht had this matting removed once a moon cycle. The hall’s
inhabitants tracked mud inside and threw remains of food and drink at their
feet after every meal. Dogs slunk around the tables during the main meal at
midday and sometimes relieved themselves inside the hall – although they were
beaten if caught.

Freya carried the armful of matting out of the hall and carefully
made her way down the steps. Bright afternoon light greeted her, making Freya
squint after the dimness inside.

In the stable yard, Ecgric was leading a group of men through
sword practice. He strutted about, shouting orders and waving his sword as if
he were king himself. The weapon was magnificent; its long blade beaten iron
overlaid with steel, with a fine leather pommel. Ecgric had often boasted about
the sword over a few meads in the evenings. The sword was called
Æthelfrith’s
Bane
, so named after the Northumbrian ruler that King Raedwald had slain in
battle many years earlier. The sword had belonged to Ecgric’s father. Ecgric’s
favorite boast was that the sword had cut down so many of Æthelfrith’s warriors
that by the time the Northumbrian king met Raedwald face-to-face, he was
floundering in a lake of blood.

What have you done to earn that sword?
Freya thought,
ignoring the lustful glance that Ecgric cast her way before he turned his back
to bellow instructions at his warriors. Ecgric’s attentions had been steadily
growing more annoying over the past few days. He never missed the chance to
leer at her or grab her bottom when the king’s back was turned.

You’ve fooled the king with your honeyed words
about your god and piety
, she thought sourly,
but I know what you
really are.

Freya dumped the soiled rush-matting into the cart and was
about to turn and make her way back up the steps when the sound of approaching
horses made her pause. A moment later, horsemen thundered into the stable yard.

The king had returned.

A band of warriors carrying shields encircled King Sigeberht
and Felix of Burgundy. They drew their horses to a halt, kicking up dust as
they did so. Sigeberht swung down from his horse before tossing the reins to
Aidan. As always, the king was dressed in black, and a heavy fur cloak swung
from his shoulders.

“Milord.” Ecgric approached the king. “Was your trip
successful?”

“Very. We have found the site for our school,” the king
announced with a rare smile.

“The upper reaches of the Lark Valley,” Felix spoke up, his
narrow face flushed with excitement, “at Beodricesworth. ‘Tis an excellent
location.”

“I have left some men there to begin work. I expect it to be
ready by midsummer,” Sigeberht added. His gaze then swept over the men who
Ecgric had been training. “Are these the new warriors you spoke of?”

Ecgric nodded. “And more will come.”

“You have done well,” Sigeberht replied, falling into step
with Ecgric as they crossed the stable yard together. They passed Freya but
neither man acknowledged her.

“While we camped at Beodricesworth, word reached me that Penda
of Mercia plans to extend his border east within a year,” Sigeberht continued.
“Will the
fyrd
be ready for him?”

“A year is plenty milord,” Ecgric replied smoothly. “We will
be ready for the Mercians when they come.”

Freya watched Felix join the king and Ecgric, and together the
three men talked in low voices for a few moments. Then, the king took his leave
and, with Felix trailing behind him, mounted the steps to the Great Hall.
Ecgric sauntered back to his warriors, whispering an obscenity in Freya’s ear
as he passed her. She shrank back from him, resisting the urge to spit at his
feet.

“Come lads.” Ecgric sheathed his sword. “That’s enough for
today – the mead hall awaits!”

The rabble of warriors, many of them new to Rendlaesham, gave
shouts of agreement at this suggestion. They piled out of the stable yard,
their voices echoing in the road beyond as they made their way down to
Rendlaesham’s mead hall.

Freya watched them go, relieved that Ecgric had removed
himself from her presence, before her gaze swiveled to Aidan. Many days had
passed since Beltaine, and Aidan had barely glanced her way ever since. He
ignored her now, as he instructed his men to look after the horses. Having ignored
Ecgric and his warriors, he then led his and the king’s horse away to the
stables without a backward glance.

Freya’s gaze tracked him, willing him to turn around, to meet
to her gaze. She knew that such wishes were folly. He had given her a choice
and she had made it. If he kept his distance from her now, it was for good
reason.

Memories of that stolen moment by the well, of his mouth on
hers, his arms about her, his hands stroking her, flooded through Freya. She
tried not to think about it, but at unguarded moments the memories came
flooding back – and with them a strange emptiness. In Aidan’s arms she had felt
alive. Nothing had mattered; nothing in the world had existed but him. She had
briefly been given the taste of another life. One she could never have now.

***

Smoke settled over the thatched roofs of Rendlaesham. It was a
balmy evening and the scent of wood smoke, along with the less savory aroma of
cabbage and turnip pottage, wafted through the air. Glancing up at the sky,
Freya realized it was far later in the day than she had thought. She had
dragged the cart laden with soiled rush-matting, out of Rendlaesham, and down
to the dust-heap. The heap lay just beyond the orchard, not far from the road
that snaked its way through the fields. Once every few moon cycles, when the
heap reached a certain size, the townsfolk set fire to it.

Freya off-loaded the rush-matting and frowned up at the pink
and gold sunset that blazed overhead. She should have completed this chore
earlier, instead of returning to the hall to help Hilda. It was foolish to
linger outside the town’s walls at this hour.

She had initially left Rendlaesham by the top gates, but there
would be no time to return that way. At this rate, she risked being shut out
for the night. Freya shook her head as the irony of her situation hit her. Not
too long ago she would have welcomed such a chance for escape. Yet, after her
disastrous attempt, she worried about angering the king further. He had shown
her mercy once, she doubted he would do so a second time.

Deciding that she would make for Rendlaesham’s main gates,
which were closer than the top gates, Freya picked up the handles of her cart
and towed it along the bumpy track. Ahead of her, she could see the last of the
peasants who worked the fields, filing inside. The guards were starting to
close the gates. Freya picked up her pace, heedless to the rattling cart.

“Wait!” she called, breaking into a run.

Freya slipped inside the gates, just as the guards were
closing them.

“That was close girl,” one of the guards glowered at her.
“Next time we’ll lock you out!”

Freya ducked her head in apology and towed her cart across the
dusty square. Leaving the guards behind, she made her way towards the
thoroughfare that led up to the Great Hall. She passed closely packed houses
and noted that there were few people about. At this hour, everyone was indoors
eating their evening meal before bedding down for the night.

Deep shadows stretched across the road. Freya could hear the
sounds of muffled voices inside the wattle and daub dwellings she passed.

 Halfway up the street, she reached Rendlaesham’s mead hall. 
The focal point of the town, the mead hall was a long, bow-sided, windowless
structure with a thatched roof. Light blazed from its open door and the rowdy
sound of men’s voices and singing echoed out onto the deserted street. The
sound made Freya’s heart quicken; this was the other reason she would have
preferred to use Rendlaesham’s top gates this evening. It was not safe for
unescorted women to walk the streets after dark.

Freya was just passing the entrance when a handful of drunken
men staggered out onto the street.

Her heart sank when she saw that Ecgric, and his hanger-on,
Oeric, were among them.

In the light emanating from the mead hall, Ecgric spied her
immediately. Despite his swarthy complexion, she could see that his cheeks were
flushed with drink. He staggered towards her, and grabbed hold of the side of
the cart to steady himself.

“
Hōre
,” he leered at her. “Slut. So the king has
let you out of his sight at last has he?”

“
Lūtan!
” Freya snarled back without thinking.
“Lout, leave me be!”

“Go on lads.” Ecgric waved his drinking companions away. “I’ll
take great pleasure in escorting this whore back to the hall.”

“Let us all have some fun with her,” Oeric protested. “Go on,
she’s had it coming for weeks!”

“Push off!” Ecgric slurred, shoving Oeric in the direction of
the departing warriors. “Find your own whore to play with.”

The other warriors departed with crude laughter and ribald
comments, while Oeric trailed sullenly behind them. Freya watched them go with
rising panic; she did not want to be left with this man. She stared at the
warriors’ retreating backs and attempted to follow them.

Ecgric grabbed her arm and pulled her up short.

“Why the haste?”

“Let go of me!”

“Not so fiery now are you?” Ecgric yanked Freya away from the
cart and pulled her towards an alleyway a few yards up the street. “Not when
I’ve finally got you alone.”

Fear clawed at Freya, momentarily suffocating her. He was much
stronger than her; his grip was an iron clamp around her upper arm.
Nevertheless, she began to struggle. Once he pulled her into the shadows, she
knew what he intended to do.

“The king will be furious if you touch me!” She dug her heels
into the dirt and shoved at him with her free hand. “Loose me!”

Ecgric turned and slapped her hard across the face.

“Shut your mouth!  What do I care if the king discovers you
are no longer a virgin. With any luck he’ll give you to my men afterwards.”

Despite his command, fear gave Freya courage. The pain from
his slap merely galvanized her. If he was to rape her, it would not be without
a fight.

She screamed and, closing her hand into a fist, punched him as
hard as she could in the jaw.

Ecgric staggered back, his face black with rage. Recovering
swiftly, he grabbed Freya by the hair and propelled her towards the alleyway.
Freya fell forward on to her knees and was scrambling to her feet when Ecgric
leaped on her. His breath was hot and stank of mead. With one hand he grasped
her around the neck, cutting off her breathing, and any chance that she might
scream again; while with the other hand he yanked at her clothing, struggling
to pull up her skirts.

His nearness only caused Freya to fight harder. She twisted in
his grip, panic coursing through her as his hand pressed down on her windpipe.
She brought her knee up hard, into his cods.

Ecgric released her with a strangled wail. Freya wriggled free
of his grasp, knowing she had but moments before he grabbed hold of her again,
and bolted up the street.

“Filthy
hōre!
” he yelled after her, his voice raw.
“You won’t outrun me!”