Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Solitude
THE DAY AFTER the handfasting dawned grey and chill. After long moons of mild weather, summer seemed to finally have given way to autumn.
Stepping outside the Great Tower of Bebbanburg, Osana heaved in a lungful of fresh, cold air.
The interior of the tower was cloying, smoky, and full of unpleasant odors that morning.
The smell of mead and stale food had made Osana feel queasy as she had helped herself to a heel of bread and a cup of broth.
She had left Raedwulf asleep in their alcove.
After the amount he had drunk the night before, he would sleep till noon.
A salt-laced breeze gusted across the yard before the tower, sending straw and dust flying. Osana pulled the fur mantle she wore about her shoulders close and descended the steps.
There was a market in front of the low gate most mornings, and she wanted to visit it, to wander amongst the stalls and pretend she was another woman—with a different life.
She passed through the high gate and walked out onto the King’s Way, a wide swathe that led down to the market square. Unlike those in the slumbering tower, the rest of Bebbanburg—the folk who kept this fort alive—were already up and about.
The clang of iron rang out into the street, carried from a row of forges. As Osana approached the market, she heard the cry of hawkers, mingling with the shriek of gulls circling above.
Osana entered the busy market square, weaving her way through the crowds of local women, shopping baskets under their arms. This was a special market today, for merchants and farmers had come from afar to help celebrate the handfasting.
Despite the lack of sun and warmth this morning, Osana saw that most of the folk she passed were smiling.
A butcher selling blood sausage and haunches of salted pork was sharing a story with the man he served, his loud, deep laugh booming across the square.
Everyone loved a handfasting, especially a royal one.
Osana wished she shared their merriment. Not that she wished the king and his young wife ill—only that these days she found it hard to dredge up any feelings of happiness at all.
Melancholy had settled over her in a heavy shroud.
She circuited the market square, declining the offers of a handful of vendors, before turning to retrace her steps. It was then she spotted the small wooden church at the corner of the square.
Osana was not ready to return to the fetid, smoky Great Hall, to sit amongst the other wives and pretend to be interested in their prattle.
She wanted peace—solitude.
Osana pushed open the oaken door and entered the church, leaving the noise of the market behind her as she pulled the door shut.
A simple timbered space greeted her. The floor was beautiful though: a sea of grey tiles that whispered underfoot as she made her way to the altar.
Above stretched a ribcage of wooden beams. The air carried the odor of tallow from the bank of candles burning behind the altar.
A row of tiny windows along each length of the building let in streams of pale grey light.
Osana reached the altar, where a cross carved from dark wood rose up before her. Silently she knelt, clasping her hands in front of her.
The small church in Hagustaldes was also a refuge for her, a place she withdrew to when life in the ealdorman’s hall became insufferable. She loved the quiet, to be left alone with her own thoughts.
Lord forgive me, she thought, bowing her head. I do not wish to be a wife.
They were dark traitorous thoughts, ones she dared not utter aloud.
My husband is not a bad man. She clenched her fingers hard together. But sometimes, when I look upon his sleeping face, I wish him dead … just so that I wouldn’t have to suffer his touch ever again.
“It is a heart-warming sight, to see a woman so pious at this time of day.”
The rumble of a male voice forced Osana out of her reverie.
She straightened up and twisted round to see a tall, rangy man with hawkish features and a receding hairline approach.
He wore dark robes, his sandaled feet scuffing upon the tiled floor.
Beside him walked a small, slight, dark-haired man with bright blue eyes wearing priest’s robes.
Osana recognized the taller of the two figures as Bishop Wilfrid, but although she had seen the priest at the handfasting feast, she did not know his name.
“Wes tu hal, Bishop Wilfrid,” she greeted him.
The bishop halted and inclined his head, his keen gaze sweeping over her. “Have we met?”
“No … I am Osana of Hagustaldes,” she replied, rising to her feet.
The priest stepped forward. “My name is Oswald. I’m the priest here.” He favored her with a smile then. “I saw you yesterday at the feast. Your husband is the ealdorman of Hagustaldes?”
Osana nodded.
“Did you enjoy the handfasting?” the priest asked.
“I did.”
Beside Oswald, the bishop allowed himself a small smile. “A splendid match is it not?”
She dipped her head. “Aye … it seems so.” She did not speak what was in her thoughts, that the king and his bride had seemed ill at ease with each other the evening before—that Aldfrith of Northumbria had the loneliest eyes she had ever seen.
Bishop Wilfrid watched her a moment; he had a piercing look that made her uncomfortable. Then he stepped back, motioning to the altar, his sleeve whispering in the cavernous space.
“We have interrupted your prayer … please continue.”
Osana dipped her head and moved away from the altar. “You didn’t interrupt me,” she replied. “I was finished anyway.” She stepped around the two men and headed toward the door. “Good day.”
Osana stepped back into the sunless morning and heaved a deep breath. All she wanted was a moment of solitude, a space where she could lower the mask she wore day-in-day-out. However, it sometimes felt as if the world conspired against her.
Peace was rare these days.
She made her way back up to the high gate and passed into the courtyard beyond. The Great Tower of Bebbanburg, made of the same red rock as the outcrop this fort stood upon, cast a deep shadow over the yard.
Osana did not want to return inside—not yet.
Instead, she cut left and walked into an orchard. Apple and pear trees, their branches laden with ripe fruit, covered this private space. There was a well at the end nearest the tower, but the orchard itself appeared deserted.
Osana wandered amongst the trees. The scent of apple tempted her, and she plucked a fruit from a low-hanging branch, biting into it as she walked.
Finally—alone.
A wave of melancholy hit her then, and she blinked back tears.
Even the sweet, crisp flavor of the apple could not keep her sadness at bay.
Life at times seemed such hard work. Her coupling with Raedwulf last night had darkened her mood.
She wished she had remained in Hagustaldes and let him come to the handfasting alone.
Then she would have at least have had a few days’ peace from him.
The sound of music intruded then—the lilting, gentle strum of a harp. It was a sad, soft song that matched her mood.
Osana followed the music to the back of the orchard, and there, seated upon a low bench in profile, sat King Aldfrith. He played a small wooden harp, his long fingers dancing across the strings. However, his gaze appeared distant.
Frozen to the spot for an instant, Osana listened to the song. It was haunting in its beauty, and she could have stayed to listen all morning.
Yet she knew she was intruding. Like her, the king had sought out solitude; he would not welcome company.
Slowly releasing the breath she had been holding, Osana took a step back—hoping to edge away unseen—but a twig snapped underneath her foot, and she froze. The king looked up, the music halting as his fingers stilled.
His gaze swiveled to her.