Chapter Seven
For the Best
“YOUR HUSBAND IS a handsome fellow—you are a fortunate woman.”
Osana glanced up from where she was winding wool onto her distaff.
A basket lay at her feet, and she sat with a wooden spindle, teasing out the sticky fiber before winding it onto her distaff.
She never went anywhere without her distaff.
Ever since she was a girl, it had been like an additional limb.
Eldflaed, the woman who had spoken, grinned across at her.
The group of wives sat before one of the fire pits, sewing, spinning, and mending as they discussed the events of the last day.
Eldflaed, the wife of one of the king’s thegns, was the loudest of the group.
The onion-breathed woman of the day before now had a name.
“I suppose he is comely,” Osana forced a smile. “Only that, after years of marriage a wife ceases to notice such details.”
As she had hoped, this comment caused laughter to echo around the fireside.
“I wish my man was so fine,” another of the wives said with a sigh. She was the ealdorman of Catraeth’s wife. “I swear with each passing year Wulfred grows more and more in the likeness of a boar.”
Laughter erupted once more, and even Osana raised a smile. Wulfred of Catraeth was the hairiest man she had ever seen—with dark hair tufting from his nostrils and ears.
The conversation resumed, and Osana shifted her attention back to her distaff.
It grew late in the afternoon, and the air inside the Great Hall was heavy with the odor of simmering pottage.
At the fire pit opposite, servants were starting to cook great wheels of bread upon a griddle.
After the indulgence of the night before, this supper would be a simple one.
The rumble of men’s voices filtered across the hall, and Osana glanced up to see the king enter the space.
Aldfrith walked in long, confident strides, Bishop Wilfrid at his side. Wilfrid was talking to the king, his voice low, his expression fierce. In contrast, the king’s face was solemn, his eyes stern as he listened to him.
A group of ealdormen—Raedwulf among them—followed Aldrfrith and the bishop, laughing and teasing each other as they entered the tower.
Osana’s gaze tracked the king across the rushes. She knew she should not gawk so, yet she could not help herself.
She had been in an odd mood ever since their conversation that morning.
She kept thinking of the words that had passed between them—the man’s disarming candor.
At the time she had been happy to flee, for she had been embarrassed by the intimacy.
But as the day progressed, she found herself longing for a chance to talk to him again.
Osana dropped her gaze to her spindle, a heaviness descending upon her. That conversation had been an unexpected, stolen, moment. The king was usually surrounded by retainers, and she and Raedwulf were to depart the following morning.
Osana would not get the chance to speak with Aldfrith again.
It’s just as well, she consoled herself, teasing a piece of lamb’s wool with her fingers. It was improper anyway.
And yet part of her did not care. She had been brought up in a pious, conservative household.
Manners had mattered a lot to her parents, as had proper behavior.
Her father was an ambitious thegn and her mother an ealdorman’s daughter.
Osana had always felt smothered by them.
The eldest of three daughters, she had been relieved to marry and escape their constant judgment.
Even though they were both dead, she felt she was defying them now, by wishing for another private conversation with the king.
“Cuthburh!” Eldflaed’s strident voice interrupted Osana’s reverie once again. “Come sit with us, milady.”
Osana lifted her gaze to see a slender figure glide across the rushes toward them.
Like the other women, Osana automatically rose to her feet before dipping into a curtsy. However, as she did so, she noted the dramatic change in the girl.
Cuthburh’s flowing flaxen hair, which had cascaded down her back the day before, was now hidden by a white headrail—only a glimpse of the end of a braid was visible under the hem of the veil.
Unlike the form-fitting gown, the queen now wore a loose-fitting tunic made of cream linen, girded around her narrow waist. Her face, framed by the headrail, was still lovely, although the queen’s appearance this afternoon was austere and cold.
Her expression was shuttered as she took a seat next to the hearth and picked up a delicate piece of embroidery.
“Good day, all.” Her voice was low and sweet, although Osana heard the guarded edge to it. Cuthburh did not trust them.
“That is a lovely tunic, milady.” One of the ealdorman’s wives commented. “Such fine weave—and a lovely color.”
Cuthburh’s rosebud mouth pursed. “It is too gaudy for my liking, but my brother refused to let me bring my usual clothes. Tomorrow I will see about having plainer garments made.”
The queen’s comment caused a ripple of surprise to go through the knot of women.
Cuthburh was queen—she was expected to wear fine clothes.
Osana watched the queen bow her head and begin work on her embroidery, her slim, nimble fingers working with expert speed.
She thought back to what Aldfrith had told her and realized he had not exaggerated Cuthburh’s wish for a different life to this one.
Osana stifled a sigh.
Don’t we all?
“Osana!”
She glanced up to see Raedwulf hailing her. He was seated upon the high seat, holding up a bronze cup. “Come, wife—get some wine and fill our cups!”
Osana heard a few of the women giggle at Raedwulf’s command. No doubt they thought him manly and authoritative.
Osana just found him boorish.
Putting down her spindle, she left the women, murmured an apology, and crossed to the high seat. A servant girl had filled a ewer of sloe wine, which she passed to Osana. Silently, ever the obedient wife, Osana circuited the table, pouring wine into each man’s cup.
Now that he had hailed her to his side, Raedwulf ignored Osana. He was deep in conversation with the ealdorman of Gefrin, discussing perimeter defenses, and did not even look his wife’s way as she passed.
Osana was grateful.
Reaching the head of the table, Osana filled the king’s cup. She was drawing back—about to move on to the bishop—when Aldfrith looked up.
Eyes the color of the summer sky just before sunset met hers. And just for a moment, Osana paused, ensnared.
“Thank you,” the king said quietly.
Heart hammering, Osana dipped her head and moved on to Bishop Wilfrid. However, as she did so, she realized that it was not only the king who had noticed her. The bishop had too.
Wilfrid watched her under hooded lids, his gaunt face stern.
Osana met his gaze, and her heart slammed painfully against her ribs.
One look at the bishop’s narrowed stare, his thinned lips, and she felt stripped bare.
They had done nothing wrong, but she felt as if the bishop had caught the pair of them cavorting naked.
A flush spread up from her chest at the thought, and Osana hastily moved on to continue pouring the wine.
They left Bebbanburg with the dawn. Raedwulf rose before Osana, leaving her to pack their belongings while he went out to ready the horses.
They had brought a small party with them—just four of Raedwulf’s most trusted men but no servants.
Osana would serve and tend to their needs during the journey home.
Osana readied the leather trunk in their alcove and called two of her husband’s men to carry it out to the wagon. Then she made her way out into the hall.
Women were shouting at servants, children wailed, and men hauled leather bags and trunks across the space, kicking dogs out of the way as they went. Raedwulf and Osana were not the only ones to be leaving.
There was no sign of the king—or queen—this morning.
Disappointment settled over Osana that she would not see Aldfrith again, but she quickly shrugged it off.
Goose. Pull yourself together.
Osana crossed the hall and left the tower through an arched entranceway. A grey, misty morning and the smell of wood smoke greeted her. She huffed out a breath. Summer, it seemed, was over. The scent of autumn lay heavy in the air.
Pulling her thick fur mantle close, she descended the steps to the yard below, spotting her husband leading their horses from the stables. A wagon filled with their baggage sat waiting surrounded by Raedwulf’s men—who were mounted and ready to go.
“Always the last to arrive, wife,” Raedwulf grumbled, handing over the horse’s reins.
Osana favored him with an arch look. “And rightly so, husband. Someone has to ensure you didn’t leave something behind.”
He grinned at that. Raedwulf had always enjoyed her spirit—unlike some men who might have beaten it out of her.
There had only been a couple of occasions when he had taken a hand to her: when she had dared to contradict him in front of his brother and retainers.
After that, Osana had taken care to save their arguments for their alcove.
“Gossiping with other wives more like,” he said before turning to his horse and swinging up onto the saddle. “I know how women like to prattle.”
Osana rolled her eyes, knowing he had his back to her.
You know nothing about women.
Gathering her skirts, Osana mounted her palfrey.
She bowed her head as a chill wind gusted through her layers of clothing.
Osana shivered, pulling up her fur-lined hood.
The journey from Hagustaldes had been a pleasant one—but with the turn of the weather, the return would not be such an enjoyable ride.
Raedwulf urged his horse forward, and Osana followed, the wagon rumbling behind them as the driver flicked the reins and the stocky pony drawing it moved off.
The wagon had been laden with wedding gifts: a fur-lined cloak for the queen, two beautifully crafted seaxes with amber-studded hilts, and a bounty of cheeses and cured meats for the king’s stores.
It was far lighter for the return journey.
Against her will, Osana found her gaze drawn back toward the Great Tower of Bebbanburg.
She glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to see a tall blond man standing on the steps watching them go.
However, no one was there to see them off—just the ealdorman of Catraeth, who was bickering with his wife as he lumbered down the steps to the yard.
It’s best I didn’t see Aldfrith this morning. Osana dragged her gaze away and urged her mare under the high gate. The expanse of the King’s Way loomed before her. Best I return to reality.
That conversation, those stolen moments in the orchard, had been a dream; that scene seemed as if it had belonged to someone else’s life.
For a few brief moments, she had forgotten that she was Osana: barren and lonely.
For a short spell, she had merely been a woman in the company of a man who had made her feel alive.
But that man was king and as untouchable as a star.
And she was wedded, bonded for life to another.
It would do her no good to think on Aldfrith of Northumbria—for it would only make her melancholy grow.
She glanced right at where Raedwulf rode, his thick blond hair tumbling over his shoulders, his profile ruggedly handsome as always.
Raedwulf of Hagustaldes was her life. It would be better for her to forget she had ever spoken to the king.