Nightfall till Daybreak (The Kingdom of the East Angles Book 2) (3 page)

“Yes
mōder
,” Freya sighed, “just let me get some
feeling back into my fingers first.”

Freya closed her eyes as heat seeped into her hands. Then, her
thoughts returned to her encounter on the shore. She thought about telling her
mother about the arrogant man who had accosted her, but decided against it.
Cwen was suspicious by nature and would be overly alarmed. Two women living
alone in the woods had to be careful and Cwen was forever warning Freya about
men and how they could not be trusted. Her mother would pepper her with
questions and Freya felt an odd reluctance to tell her about the stranger with
black hair and piercing blue eyes.

Opening her own eyes, Freya glanced around the interior of the
cottage. Her surroundings were as familiar to her as the back of her hand. It
was small and, at times, cramped, but this cottage kept them warm, dry and
safe. Freya’s gaze then settled on the small loom that awaited her on the
other-side of the fire pit. Feeling that she had delayed long enough, Freya
reluctantly stepped away from the fire and went to retrieve it.

She was just settling herself onto a stool when a man’s voice
intruded upon the afternoon’s peace.

“
Wes hāl!”

Freya went as rigid as a rabbit poised to flee a fox.

He followed me
, she thought in numb
disbelief.
What in Woden’s name does he want?

 “Open your door in the name of the king!”

Freya felt a surge of relief, tinged with alarm, when the
man’s voice rang out once again. It was not the voice of the stranger she had
met on the shore; he had not been a king’s emissary.

A moment passed before Cwen set aside her distaff and stood
up. Wordlessly, Freya also rose to her feet and followed her mother to the
door.

Two men waited outside. They were dressed in leather with
bronze and silver arm-rings – warriors. Her father, dead four years now, had
been a man such as these. Tall and muscular with a mane of red hair, Aelli of
Gipeswic’s arms had sparkled with arm-rings, all tributes to his valor. Yet,
courage had not saved his life.  

Cwen greeted the newcomers coldly.

“What do you want?”

 The men stared back at her, before their gazes slid across to
Freya. They were only a couple of years older than her, and they eyed Freya
with interest as she stepped up beside her mother.

“Cwen of Shottisham?”

Cwen nodded reluctantly.

“The king commands your presence.” The warrior’s gaze lingered
on Freya before he fixed Cwen in a hard stare. “He requires a healer urgently.”

“If you could tell me what ails him, it would help me know
what to bring.” Cwen’s voice had an acerbic edge that made Freya suppress a
smile. She loved the way her mother spoke to men. Cwen was so different to some
of the fawning women they had known in Rendlaesham.

“It’s a matter between you and the king,” the warrior replied
stubbornly. “Now gather what you need and let us depart.”

Cwen glared at the man before turning to her daughter.

“Freya – fill a bag with food while I put some grain out for
the hens.”

Freya nodded and went back inside. She filled a cloth bag with
whatever she could find: a loaf of bread baked that morning, a wedge of hard
cheese and the remains of a rabbit pie they had planned to eat for supper.
Then, Freya pulled on her fur-lined boots, slung the bag across her chest and
exchanged her woolen shawl for a thick rabbit-skin cloak.

When Freya emerged from the house, ready to travel, Cwen was
waiting for her with a heavy shawl about her shoulders. In front of her, she
grasped a large, deep basket containing her cures. The warriors bristled with
impatience. Freya could sense the irritation emanating from them in waves.

They were not used to waiting for women.

Following the warriors and Cwen out of the clearing, Freya
glanced back at the home she shared with her mother. Like Cwen, she did not
like leaving it unattended but, hopefully, they would not be away for more than
a few days.

Chapter
Two

The warriors led the women away from the coast, southwest
through the trees, until they reached a narrow forest path. The woods sheltered
them from the chill wind but Freya was glad for the comforting weight of her
cloak nonetheless; she would need it after nightfall.

The sun hung low in the sky when they reached the banks of the
Deben. A boat, just big enough to hold four people, awaited them in the mud.
The incoming tide lapped gently at the stern, guaranteeing the travelers a
swift journey up-river.

Cwen and Freya climbed onboard while the warriors pushed the
boat into the swirling water. Moments later, they were away and paddling with
the creeping tide inland. Freya sat quietly and watched the bramble clad
riverbank slide by. This close to the estuary, the Deben was so wide that the
far bank was difficult to make out. A cold wind whipped across the water and
made Freya draw her cloak even tighter about herself.

The two warriors chatted amongst themselves but did not engage
the women in conversation. Freya attempted to talk to her mother, only to
receive short, terse responses. Cwen appeared distracted and Freya wondered if
it had anything to do with the fact that the last time they had travelled upon
the Deben, her father had only been dead a matter of days. Freya had been
nearing the end of her sixteenth summer when her father went into battle
alongside King Raedwald on Uffid Heath. The king won the battle that day but
Aelli of Gipeswic died upon the Heath.

Freya felt her eyes sting with tears at the memory of the last
time she had seen her father, smiling and full of brash self-confidence as he
kissed his wife goodbye. Her mother’s grief had been almost as difficult to
bear as the loss of her beloved father – and for a time Freya had worried her
mother would never recover from it. With Aelli dead, their life in Rendlaesham
had ended. While King Raedwald celebrated his victory, Cwen had packed up their
belongings and moved herself and her daughter far from Rendlaesham and its
memories.

“
Mōdor
.” Freya reached out and placed her hand on
her mother’s arm. “I miss him too.”

Cwen glanced across at Freya, her eyes shining with tears.
“Damn that man.” She attempted a brave smile. “Why is it that even years on I
can’t forget him?”

“Because you loved him.” Freya struggled not to cry as she
answered. “And the gods cruelly took him from us.”

Cwen wiped her eyes, her face hardening as she did so. Freya,
without meaning to, had just touched a raw nerve. “The gods are not to blame
for Aelli’s death.” Cwen’s voice was laced with iron. “Raedwald was.”

Dusk had settled and the last vestiges of light were fading
from the sky, when the small party arrived at the Great Barrows of Kings.

The silhouettes of the giant mounds stood out against the
indigo sky. Freya felt the skin on the back of her neck prickle at the sight of
their majesty. All of the East Anglian kings lay here, including King Raedwald
himself.

The king had died less than a year after her father. Freya
remembered catching glimpses of him during her childhood. Tall, blond and
imposing, Raedwald had been a leader of men. Indeed, he had led her father to
his death. Although she held no anger towards the dead king herself, Freya
could understand her mother’s bitterness. Raedwald had led his men into battle
in order to settle an old score. If Aelli had died defending the kingdom from
an invading army, Cwen might have understood. Aelli had died so that Raedwald
could have his reckoning – Cwen had never been able to forgive that.

On the riverbank, two more warriors stood awaiting them,
torches aloft. The men exchanged brusque greetings, as they heaved the boat in
to shore. Then, they helped Cwen and Freya disembark. Horses waited nearby,
under the shadow of the barrows. The warriors led the women over to them
without preamble.

“The king wants us back by daybreak,” one of the warriors
reminded his companions. “We will have to ride through the night.”

Freya caught the edge of irritation in the man’s voice and
wondered what concern of the king’s could be so urgent that they were expected
to travel without rest to see him. Due to their isolated life, Freya had heard
little of Ricberht; besides that he had killed Raedwald’s son to gain the
throne. Judging from the behavior of these warriors, Ricberht the Usurper was
not a man to be crossed.

It had been a long while since Freya had been on a horse and,
after a short time, her posterior was aching. It was a chill, windy night and
the riders travelled in a tight knot. Freya watched the torches of the two
warriors in front of her gutter in the wind. Around them, the darkness was
impenetrable- making the journey slow and difficult. The moon had reached the
end of its cycle and did not show its friendly face to guide them. The men
obviously knew this road well or it would have been perilous to travel on it.
Freya could not help but worry about outlaws, and her imagination ran wild as
she rode.

The night crept by slowly. Freya and Cwen did not converse,
save the odd word, as they both struggled to keep awake. Fatigue pulled down at
Freya and her eyelids grew heavy. Many times she felt sleep almost claim her,
before she pulled back from the brink and jolted into wakefulness.

They rode in silence. No one spoke but Freya wished the men
would. The rumble of conversation would have made it easier to stay awake.
Eventually, Freya had to keep pinching herself to keep sleep at bay. She was
terrified that she would topple off her horse and be trampled by the two
following close behind.

Eventually, a faint glow appeared in the east, heralding the
approaching dawn. Freya’s eyes burned; they felt as if they were full of grit.
She yawned, rubbed her eyes, and wished they could rest a short while before
seeing the king.

The party rode through flat, green landscape, interspersed
with clumps of woodland. It was gentle, lush countryside dominated by a wide
sky. The spring had been wet and the bright green of new growth was everywhere.
Gradually, the land became more undulating until, nestled in a shallow valley
ahead and framed by arable fields to the south and vast orchards to the north,
lay Rendlaesham.

The morning sun warmed Freya’s face as they neared the town.
From a distance, Rendlaesham – the home of the King of the East Angles – looked
no different to how she remembered it; a carpet of thatched roofs with the
golden roof of the Great Hall rising above it all.

The morning was clear and still. Freya could see smoke rising
from the roofs, blending with the silver blue of the lightening sky. Freya’s
memories of their life at Rendlaesham were mostly pleasant but, still, she felt
a stab of misgiving at the sight of the town’s wattle and daub houses and
sturdy wooden perimeter fence. It was a reminder of another life – one that was
lost to her.

It was only when they rode down the last incline towards
Rendlaesham that Freya noticed a great change in the town from four years
earlier. The patchwork of fields surrounding the town should have been brimming
with produce and freshly tilled earth. Yet, the fields that greeted Freya were
neglected, rife with weeds and overgrown in places. There were occasional signs
of industry, and a few haphazard plots grew spring vegetables, but the general
sense of desolation shocked Freya. She glanced across at her mother and saw her
own surprise reflected on Cwen’s face. Rendlaesham had prospered under King
Raedwald’s rule. They had heard that his son, Eorpwald, had also ruled well.

Ricberht had only had the throne since mid-winter. How had
things deteriorated so quickly?

As they approached the main gates, Freya’s gaze rested upon a
grisly spectacle. A man hung from a gibbet to the right of the gates. He did
not look long dead, yet when they neared him Freya caught the putrid odor of
decay. She slapped a hand over her mouth as her bile rose. Ravens had picked out
his eyes. The man’s purpled face grimaced at the party as they rode by. Freya
averted her gaze and wondered what the man had done to merit such punishment.

Through the gates they went, and the neglect that Freya had
witnessed in the fields was mirrored within. Refuse littered the dirt streets
and the reek of sewage and rotting food hung in the air. Freya swallowed as her
stomach roiled, and looked up at the Great Hall. The magnificent timbered
building was as beautiful as ever. The morning sun gleamed off its straw-thatch
roof, making it appear gilded.

They rode up to the high fence that ringed the Great Hall and
Freya felt apprehension flutter up inside her ribcage. Not for the first time,
she wondered what they would find there.

The small party passed through the gates and into a wide
stable yard. Like the town outside, there were signs of neglect here also;
piles of stinking dung, buzzing flies and rotting food scraps.

Freya winced as she slid off her horse. She was so stiff that
she wondered, for a moment, if she would be able to climb the stairs up to the
Great Hall. Cwen’s face was also taut with pain as she followed two of the
warriors towards the stairs; her gait stiff and labored. Freya hobbled after
her mother. The stairs seemed to stretch upward for an eternity and she gritted
her teeth with each step. She drew in a deep breath of relief on reaching the
top step.

Two guards flanked the great oak doors upon a wide wooden
ledge that ran the width of the hall. Upon seeing the two warriors who escorted
the women, the guards stepped aside and pulled the doors open.

Freya stepped inside. Her gaze traveled around the Great
Hall’s interior, and she blinked rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the dimness.
All the years she had lived in Rendlaesham, she had never before set foot
inside the King’s Hall. It was a magnificent building with high rafters,
stained black from years of smoke. Unlike the neglect and filth outside, the
Great Hall appeared clean and well maintained. Clean rushes covered the floor
and heavy tapestries and finely crafted weaponry that gleamed in the firelight
– axes, swords and shields – hung from the walls. A huge fire pit dominated the
space and a carcass of mutton spit-roasted above it, causing a pall of greasy
smoke to hang in the air. The aroma of roasting meat was a welcome relief after
the stench of Rendlaesham. Yet, like her mother, Freya’s gaze did not linger on
the mutton. Instead, it shifted to the man lounging on the throne at the far
end of the cavernous space.

The king noticed the two women immediately. His gaze gave
nothing away as it moved over them and settled upon Freya.

The nervous fluttering in Freya’s chest tightened into a hard
knot of apprehension. This man was as different to King Raedwald, as night to
day. He was tall and lean with an angular face and eyes so dark they almost
appeared black. Unlike Raedwald, who had been a proud but good-natured man,
King Ricberht exuded danger.