Lord of the North Wind (The Kingdom of Northumbria #3)

Prologue

The Angle’s Bastard

Off the northern coast of éirinn (Ireland)

FLANN WEPT FOR most of the journey.

Tears trickled down his face as he stared into the distance. Hunched at the bow of the longboat, he watched the slate grey expanse of the sea before him. It merged into an overcast horizon. The whole world seemed drained of color this afternoon, a bleak cold place that mirrored his soul.

Behind him he was vaguely aware of the other men: the low rumble of their voices that the wind snatched away, the oarsmen’s grunts, and the steady splash of the oars in the water that moved in time with his breathing.

Flann shivered and pulled his fur mantle close. However, it was not the cold that bit at him—for despite the grey day, it was summer—but grief and misery.

I will never feel warm again.

Flann glanced down at the dark waters rippling by.

Shortly after they had left éirinn, striking north toward Pictland, he had considered throwing himself overboard and letting the sea take him.

He could not swim; he would sink like a boulder.

But the thought had reminded him of his mother, of the sight of her bloated body floating in with the tide, her long tangled hair drifting around her like kelp.

The memory had brought him up short. Then he had felt sick.

No, he did not have the stomach for such an end.

And so Flann remained where he was, a lone figure perched upon the bow, isolated in his misery. Around him, the light started to fade. The wind buffeted the boat and seabirds cried overhead.

Flann paid none of it any notice; his thoughts had turned inwards. His drying tears now itched upon his cheeks.

“There it is, lad.” A man’s gruff voice sounded behind him. “Iona approaches.”

Flann looked up from where he had been staring at the waves and spied a low rocky strip on the north-eastern horizon. The peaked outline of a church roof rose sharply against the darkening sky.

After a long pause, his uncle spoke once more. “Flann … are you sure this is what you want?”

Flann swallowed. His throat ached, making it hard to speak.

Rousing himself, he glanced over his shoulder.

His uncle Daragh stared back at him. The wind whipped the older man’s dark hair around a careworn face.

His eyes, a penetrating dark blue, were narrowed in concern. “A monk’s life isn’t for all men.”

“Aye,” Flann rasped. “I’m sure.”

Daragh frowned. “I know it doesn’t seem so now, but your heart will mend.”

Flann glanced away, clenching his fists against his sides. His uncle was a good man, but he did not understand. “No,” he ground out. “It won’t.”

“You only have eighteen winters,” Daragh continued doggedly. “Too young to throw your life away over some vain wench.”

Flann went still, and when he answered, his voice was cold. “Don’t speak of her.”

Silence followed. The hiss of the waves hitting the rocky beach intruded upon their conversation. The isle had drawn closer as they spoke, a bare windswept rock that looked as bleak and barren as Flann now felt.

Good.

That was where he wished to be: in an empty, friendless place where there would not be any memory of her.

“You’ve got too much of your mother in you,” Daragh said eventually, pain in his voice. “My sister was ruled by her passions, consumed by them. I’d hoped your cold Angle father would have tempered the fire in your blood, but you’ve taken after Fina. Love was her world … and her ruin.”

Flann did not reply. His uncle’s words were all true, yet they changed nothing.

He could not alter what had happened, or how he felt.

He was not like Daragh: mild-tempered, steady Daragh who had a wife he adored and two young daughters who were his world.

Flann was broken, clinging onto control by his fingertips.

A new life on this rock was the only future he could contemplate.

The oarsmen navigated the longboat into a shallow bay, grounding it upon a curving sandy beach. The last fingers of light were slipping from the eastern sky now, and the wind had whipped itself up into a fury.

Spots of rain hit Flann’s face as he climbed out of the boat and followed his uncle’s broad-shouldered figure up onto the shore.

They were the same height, Daragh and him, yet Flann’s body still held the lankiness of youth.

He did not share his uncle’s coloring though.

Unlike most of the other folk upon éirinn, Flann did not have dark hair. Instead, it was pale blond.

Another legacy of my cold Angle father, he reflected bitterly.

To his mother’s people, Flann would always be the Angle’s bastard. Even those who loved him, like Daragh, must sometimes look upon his pale hair with distaste. It was a reminder of the man who had broken Fina’s heart.

Daragh’s men followed in a group behind Flann. They would all stay overnight in the monastery before, weather permitting, leaving with the dawn. They struggled up the shore, boots sinking into the pale sand. Flann kept his gaze up, searching for any sign of life.

A moment later he spied a group of figures, torches aloft, cresting the hill before them. Monks garbed in long dark robes, their hair shaved into tonsures, approached.

Flann’s pulse quickened, and for the first time since leaving éirinn, he doubted his decision.

Daragh had spoken true; he had decided in haste, in an attempt to run from pain.

Flann’s panic was fleeting though, as the hurt that had driven him across the water slammed into him once more.

Suddenly it hurt to breathe.

No—this is the right decision. He needed to re-forge himself in this place, a harsh environment that would demand much of him. He would dedicate himself to a higher purpose. He would make himself strong; he would never let such pain in again.

Daragh glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowed against the wind. His gaze met Flann’s and held for a heartbeat. “Are you ready?”

Flann dragged in a deep breath, forcing down the nerves. “Aye.”

“Very well … let us go to greet them.”

Daragh turned away and resumed his climb. Head bowed against the wind, Flann followed his uncle up the rise to meet the monks.