Chapter 6
Chapter Six
A Meeting in the Orchard
“I’M SORRY, MILORD.” Osana took another hasty step backward. “I was taking a walk. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
His dark blue gaze remained upon her for a long moment before his mouth quirked. “You aren’t intruding.”
Osana gave a hurried curtsey and backed off farther. “I bid you good morning, sire.”
She turned to flee, still clutching the half-eaten apple. His voice, faintly tinged with amusement, stilled her. “It’s Osana, isn’t it?”
She turned back, her face warming under his scrutiny. “Aye … Raedwulf of Hagustaldes is my husband.”
He nodded. “I noticed you at the feast last night.”
He said those words without the slightest flirtation, yet Osana’s cheeks grew hotter still at that.
What was wrong with her? She never blushed.
He had caught her watching him at the feast. She had been observing him, thinking his attention was elsewhere, when his gaze had snapped up, ensnaring hers.
She felt mortified now, as she had at the time.
One did not stare at the king—he would think her common and far too bold.
But when she forced herself to meet his eye, she saw that the king did not appear offended or disdainful.
Instead, he was watching her with cool interest. A moment later his gaze dropped to the apple she still clutched. “I didn’t think they were ripe enough yet. Was it a good apple?”
Now he’ll think me a thief.
Osana swallowed, mortified. “Yes sire … I’m sorry … I shouldn’t have taken one.”
He shrugged, giving her a slow smile that made Osana draw a sharp breath. He was disconcertingly handsome when he smiled, although his face was so solemn when he did not.
“I don’t mind,” he assured her. “I’m new here too. I don’t feel like I ‘own’ any of this. I certainly don’t care if you help yourself to an apple.”
Osana watched him, suddenly feeling foolish. She stood there, wanting to flee, but now that the king had engaged her in conversation, she could not.
“You play the harp well, sire,” she murmured finally. “I’ve never heard that song before.”
His smile turned melancholy, and he glanced down at the instrument upon his lap. He was dressed simply this morning, in a long woolen tunic, leather vest, and doeskin breeches. It was very different attire to last evening’s. He wore no crown this morning, nor arm rings or gilded amber brooch.
“It’s a song my mother used to play to me,” he replied after a pause. “An Eriu lament.”
Osana quirked an eyebrow. “A lament, sire. It seems an odd choice of music on the morning after your handfasting?”
He went still at that.
Osana cursed her loose tongue. What had come over her? Only a goose of a woman asked such a question. She tensed, bracing herself for anger—for that was usually Raedwulf’s response when her tongue ran away with her.
However, he merely watched her—a shadow moving in his eyes. “The music suits my mood,” he said finally. “This wasn’t a union of my choosing … or my bride’s. I doubt it will be a happy one.”
The look of fatality on his face, the dead sound in his voice, touched Osana.
Despair was a close friend of hers these days; she recognized it instantly in others.
“Your marriage has just begun,” she replied softly.
“You and Lady Cuthburh have a lifetime to grow accustomed to each other … to forge a bond.”
He watched her, a flicker of hope lighting in his eyes. “How long have you been married, Osana?”
The way he said her name caused a feather-light shiver to caress her skin. However, that question made her grow wary. She did not want to speak of her marriage. “Twelve years,” she murmured.
“And was it arranged?”
Osana nodded. “I knew Raedwulf before, but my father organized the match.”
“And were you willing?”
Osana stiffened, deeply uncomfortable now. “Aye,” she said softly, sadness and regret welling within her. “I was.”
She could have wept then, for the memory of the girl she had once been.
How easily she had been taken in by Raedwulf’s blond good looks, his ready smile.
No—it had not been a forced marriage. She had happily left her father’s hall, had eagerly thrown herself into her new life.
It made disappointment all the bitterer now.
She was aware that the king was still watching her. There was an unnerving intelligence to that gaze, and she had the intuition that he could read her silence and the emotions she was trying to smother.
Osana found it impossible to meet his eye now. Instead, she stared down at his hands.
“You’re not happy then?” he asked gently.
She shook her head, still avoiding his gaze. She wanted to lie, to pretend, as she always did whenever she was in company. Yet her emotions felt rubbed raw this morning.
Raedwulf had rutted her like a hound the night before; he had been rough, and there had been no pleasure for her—only discomfort and a simmering rage that he dare use her so.
The truth of her life had become clear in the cold grey light of the morning—and when confronted by a simple question, she found she could not pretend.
“I am sorry to hear that.”
She glanced up, meeting his eye then. “Don’t be … take hope from my story, sire. Even those of us who go willingly to our handfasting are not guaranteed a happy end. Perhaps you and the queen are the fortunate ones … maybe it’s better to begin without illusions.”
His gaze narrowed, and she saw a nerve flicker in his cheek.
“My wife despises me,” he replied. He had not raised his voice, yet there was now an edge to it that had been missing before.
“She wished to enter a nunnery, but her brother forbade it. The idea of being a wife repulses her … in every sense.”
Osana did not look away from the directness of his gaze. She felt sorry for him, although she did not voice that sentiment. No man liked being the object of pity. “She may warm to you eventually,” Osana offered. “Once she accepts that this is her life now.”
Aldfrith gave a humorless laugh. “Aye.”
Drawing in a deep breath, Osana took a step back. This was a dangerous conversation and an improper one. If one of the servants heard them, there would be gossip circulating the Great Hall by nón-mete.
She had never spoken to a man in this fashion before—not even Raedwulf. Her husband was too obtuse. He never looked at her as this man did now.
“Milord,” she said finally, wetting her lips as nervousness assailed her. “I heard you were schooled to become a monk. If you had followed that path, you would have been spared this responsibility.”
He leaned back on the bench and dragged a hand through his short blond hair, leaving it spiky and tousled. It gave him a boyish, vulnerable look.
“I wasn’t ready when I first arrived upon Iona,” he replied, an edge to his voice.
“I was frustrated about that at first, but then with the passing of the years, I decided I liked a scholar’s life better.
I could live in quiet contemplation without the harsh demands of a monk’s life.
Ironically, the day they came to collect me, the prior at Iona had told me I was ready to take my vows if I was willing. ”
Silence followed his words. Osana felt at a loss to know how to respond. Her own spirits were at a low ebb this morning—yet seeing the bleak look that flitted across the king’s handsome features, she realized she was not alone in her melancholy.
“Listen to me,” the king scoffed, rising to his feet to face her. “I’m weary of hearing the self-pity in my own voice and apologize for burdening you with this.”
Osana smiled, bobbing into a quick curtsy.
Something about this man disarmed her. The rueful look on his face told her that he was not usually given to such a bleak mood.
“It was no burden,” she said. Their gazes met and held for a long heartbeat.
“But I fear I should return to the Great Hall. My husband will be awake by now.”
“Of course,” he replied, a slight smile curving his lips, although she could still see a shadow in those blue eyes. “Good day, Osana … it was a pleasure to share a few moments with you.”
King Aldfrith watched Lady Osana of Hagustaldes walk away through the orchard, between the columns of apple trees.
She was a small woman, yet she walked tall and proud. Her thick brown hair was braided and wrapped around her crown in a severe style that did not detract from her comeliness. Instead, it revealed the pale curve of her neck.
Dolt.
What had made him say all those things?
She had looked at him with those soulful eyes, and he had felt compelled to open his heart. He had told her things he had not even realized he felt—and as she walked away a wave of loss crashed over him.
He had come out into the orchard to find a little peace and play his harp. The music soothed him, softening the sharp edges of the previous night—blunting his memory of Cuthburh’s face as she rejected him.
His conversation with the winsome ealdorman’s wife had brought it all back.
Osana disappeared from view, and Aldfrith sat down heavily upon the bench.
He had never met a woman like her. She was fair to look upon, but her appeal lay far beyond that. There was a quiet purpose to Osana, an ageless wisdom and kindness in those eyes.
A strong desire to seek Osana out and speak with her again reared up within him.
Enough.
Aldfrith silenced his thoughts with an iron will he had spent a lifetime developing.
Such thoughts will only lead you down a dark path.
With that, Aldfrith cast lingering thoughts of Osana aside and began to play his harp once more. However, this time the music did not soothe him.