Chapter Eight
A Promise for Life
Bebbanburg, Kingdom of Northumbria
Two years later
“YOU ARE LEAVING then?”
“Aye … it’s time, Aldfrith.”
He stiffened at the use of his name. In the two years of their union, Cuthburh had rarely used it—usually addressing him as ‘sire’ or ‘milord’. However, there was no warmth in her voice now, and his name sounded clipped and cold on her lips.
They faced each other—man and wife—inside the alcove they shared.
Aldfrith had returned from hawking to find Cuthburh standing amongst trunks and bags, servants scurrying around her.
At the arrival of the king, they had dipped their heads and backed out of the alcove, leaving the king and queen alone.
“We made a promise at our handfasting,” Aldfrith said, his voice flat and toneless to his hearing. “It was a promise for life.”
Cuthburh drew herself up at that, her mouth thinning. “The only promise worth anything to me is the one I made to God years ago. I will be wedded to no one but him.”
That was it then—the way of things.
Aldfrith observed his wife, taking in her haughty face and cold eyes.
She was barely more than twenty winters now, yet to him, she appeared much older.
As always, she wore heavy woolen robes that shrouded her figure and an enveloping headrail.
Her face—which he had once found so pretty—now just seemed austere.
The attraction he had once felt for her had eventually died.
He had tried to consummate their marriage again on several occasions, for only a weak fool would give up so easily, yet she had rejected him each time.
On his final attempt, they had been alone together in their alcove, undressing to retire for the night.
He had told her she was beautiful and reached out to stroke her hair.
Cuthburh had then shrieked as if scalded before beginning to sob.
Aldfrith never bothered again after that.
“So you are set on going to Berecingas?” he asked.
Cuthburh responded with a brisk nod. “I have sent word to Abbess Hildelith—she has space for me at her nunnery.”
Aldfrith’s gaze dropped to the luggage at her feet. “Have you organized an escort?”
“Aye … the bishop has organized a party of four horsemen to accompany me south.”
Aldfrith’s jaw clenched at the mention of the bishop.
It seems I’m the last to know.
“Berecingas is a long ride,” he said, forcing down his irritation. “Four men aren’t enough. I will have another four warriors accompany you.”
Her blue eyes widened at that, and for a moment her ice-queen facade cracked. She almost looked … guilty.
Cuthburh dropped her gaze, her fingers twisting around the end of the rope she used to gird her waist. “You’re a good man, Aldfrith … better than I deserve.”
He frowned, his irritation rising further. Not only was his wife about to humiliate him, but she made him feel like a cuckold. Other men would not have tolerated her behavior. Other men would have taken her whether she wanted it or not.
Suddenly, he just wished to be rid of her, to have this ice-cold wraith out of his life.
Aldfrith stepped back, schooling his face into an impassive mask and smoothing his frown. He motioned to her luggage before turning away. “I shall leave you to your packing.”
Aldfrith stood upon the palisade to the right of the low gate and watched his wife leave.
A chill breeze whispered in from the sea. The water was a leaden expanse that stretched east, and the sky in that direction looked ominous, warning of bad weather on its way.
However, Aldfrith paid the storm clouds no mind.
Instead, his gaze tracked the slender figure atop a bay palfrey who rode—spine straight—down the causeway to the road below.
Two of his men led the way, the Northumbrian banner fluttering in the wind between them, while the rest of the party rode behind the queen.
Watching her go, Aldfrith felt nothing.
Not a shred of sadness, not a glimmer of regret, or even a flicker of anger.
Nothing.
This was how his life was meant to be—he had known it from childhood. He had been alone for so long it felt like his natural state. Actually, he preferred it. There was a simplicity in being alone.
He was king, ruled a vast tract of land, and had thousands of men to command, yet he felt utterly alone.
He had felt less lonely living a hermit’s life upon Iona than he did now in a busy hall.
The Great Tower of Bebbanburg only ever grew quiet in that short space after the last warrior stretched out upon his cloak, and when the first servant rose at dawn to stoke the embers of the fire pits.
Aldfrith watched Cuthburh kick her palfrey into a fast canter, as if she was in a panic to leave, as if he would change his mind and come after her.
He would do no such thing.
Aldfrith inhaled deeply before letting the breath escape—and with it the tension of the past two years.
“So you couldn’t convince her to stay?”
A deep voice interrupted Aldfrith, and he turned to see Bishop Wilfrid standing next to him, his dark robes fluttering in the wind.
Aldfrith frowned. The bishop was not a welcome sight. “Did you encourage Cuthburh?”
Wilfrid’s heavy-lidded eyes narrowed in response. “Excuse me?”
Aldfrith held his gaze. His mood this morning made him reckless, made him speak plainer than he usually did with the bishop. “The tale of how you helped Queen Aethelthryth flee from my brother is now legend.”
Wilfrid held his gaze before his mouth twisted in a rare smile. “That was different. Ecgfrith had abased himself by raping the queen’s handmaid. Aethelthryth was left with little choice. She could not stay with such a black-hearted sinner.”
The bishop’s gaze glinted at this, revealing the depths of his hatred for Ecgfrith.
Aldfrith’s half-brother had exiled the bishop from his lands after his wife’s disappearance.
Wilfrid had been waiting for many years to return to the north.
The bishop had settled now into his new life in Inhrypum, which lay to the south of Bebbanburg, yet it did not stop him from making regular trips to the fort.
Aldfrith had the feeling he was being checked upon.
Aldfrith watched the bishop for a long moment, not believing him, before he spoke once more. “So it was true … she refused to lie with Ecgfrith?”
The bishop shrugged. “That is what she told me.”
“And you think it’s right—that a wife should shun her husband’s affections?”
Wilfrid’s features tightened. “If she truly feels Christ’s calling … yes.”
Anger surged within Aldfrith although he tamped it down “But you encouraged me to wed Cuthburh?”
“Aye, she was a good match. I did not know the depths of her piety though.” Wilfrid broke off here and glanced south, at where the party were now specks in the distance.
A trundling wagon laden with Cuthburh’s belongings and gifts for the nunnery followed the group.
“You did well to let her go. We shall find another wife for you. One who will bear you sons.”
Aldfrith clenched his jaw. “I shall not marry again, Father.”
The bishop’s dark gaze snapped back to him. “It’s your duty as king, sire. Look what happened to your brother … dying without an heir.”
Aldfrith shook his head, the shield he usually wore before the bishop slipping slightly to reveal his true feelings.
“I gave this kingdom the king they wanted,” he ground out, “—but I will not give them my soul.” Aldfrith inhaled deeply before continuing.
“I did my duty, but my union with Cuthburh didn’t endure. I’ll not repeat it.”
The bishop’s lips compressed. “You speak out of bitterness, sire. With time, you will see sense.”
Aldfrith shook his head, turning swiftly from the bishop. He hated the way Wilfrid talked to him, as if he were some wise uncle and Aldfrith a young fool who had yet to grow a beard. He would not suffer Wilfrid’s company any longer. Not today.
“I see sense now,” he bit out the words, heading for the ladder leading down from the wall. “Time will make no difference.”
Aldfrith returned to the Great Tower, but he did not go inside. Instead, he entered a low annex that had recently been built on its western side. He had commissioned its construction a year and a half earlier after the lack of solitude and reflection had gotten to him.
Three stone steps led up to an arched doorway and a heavy oaken door. Sanctuary lay behind.
Aldfrith pushed his way inside, the door closing after him with a thud that rattled the stone walls.
Argus, who had been asleep in his basket, raised his shaggy head at his master’s entrance. The wolfhound gave a soft whine in greeting, his heavy tail thumping. And despite his dark mood, Aldfrith’s mouth curved into a smile.
“Lazy dog,” he muttered. “So that’s where you’ve been all morning. How did you get in here?”
Argus’s tail increased its tempo, and he lowered his head guiltily.
“It was Cerdic, wasn’t it?” Aldfrith knew the warrior was fond of the dog. Gruff with everyone else, Argus was the only creature who roused a smile in the man.
Aldfrith sat down upon a stool before his desk and reached down to pat the wolfhound’s head.
As he did so, his gaze took in his surroundings.
His ‘sanctuary’, as he named it, was starting to look dusty and cluttered.
Cuthburh had never set foot in here, and Aldfrith did not let servants clean it.
The last thing he wanted was one of them to spill ink over the costly vellum he used to write on, or to accidentally damage one of the leather-bound volumes sitting upon the shelving.
It was a small, monkish space, certainly not kingly like his lodgings within the tower—yet he much preferred it here. The shuttered windows were slightly open, letting in pale sunlight over his table and illuminating his disorder.
With a sigh, Aldfrith rose to his feet and opened the shutters wide. The rise and fall of voices and the clucking of fowl intruded, but he did not mind. He would light the bank of tallow candles and close the shutters later. For now, the watery sunlight and the sounds of life calmed him.
He glanced down at the piece of vellum before him. The day before—struck by inspiration—he had scribbled a few lines. He read them again now.
Foolishness results in crudity
Repression results in greater repression
Hatred engenders reproach
Abandonment results in slander
Aldfrith paused, gazing down at the words.
Abandonment.
It was almost as if he had known this was coming. Of course, he must have. He and Cuthburh had been strangers to each other for a while now.
Aldfrith was still looking down at his writing, frowning, when a sharp knock sounded at the door.
He glanced up. “Aye … come in.”
The door opened, and Cerdic stepped across the threshold, his broad muscular frame filling the doorway. “Morning, sire.”
Aldfrith clenched his jaw. Usually, the thegn’s presence did not bother him. However, this morning he wished for solitude. “What is it?” he snapped.
Cerdic’s face, unreadable as always, did not alter at the cool welcome. He merely dipped his head respectfully. “Sorry for intruding, milord, but a messenger has just arrived from Hagustaldes.”
Something in his captain’s voice made Aldfrith pay attention, his ill-temper momentarily forgotten. “What is it?”
“It seems the ealdorman of Hagustaldes, Raedwulf, was gored by a boar while out hunting a few days ago,” Cerdic informed him. “He is dead.”