Chapter Ten
Choices
ALDFRITH WATCHED THE ealdorman’s wife.
The cowled cloak she wore hid most of her face from view and cast a shadow over her eyes, yet there was a quiet dignity in her presence, in the way she held herself.
He had not forgotten their conversation in the orchard that morning two years earlier. She and her husband had left Bebbanburg the following day, and so he had been unable to talk to her again. But that brief conversation had stayed with him.
She had understood how he felt and revealed the loneliness in her own marriage.
He wondered what she was feeling now. There were no tears on her cheeks, although the air of melancholy shrouding her did not seem feigned.
A dozen yards away, Raedwulf’s pyre burned upon the river, a dark plume of smoke now lifting into the sky.
The mourners gathered along the riverbank, and Aldfrith noted one or two of the women weeping. One woman, in particular, a comely female with thick auburn hair tied back in messy coils from her face, looked beside herself.
She stood next to a tall blond warrior who bore a striking resemblance to the dead ealdorman. This must be Deogol, Raedwulf’s brother, and the new ealdorman of Hagustaldes. The weeping woman must have been his wife.
Another woman was crying nearby, a slender blonde girl who looked no older than eighteen winters. A fair-haired boy clung to her skirts as she sobbed.
Aldfrith took in the scene with interest before his attention shifted back to the widow.
He realized now why she did not weep.
Raedwulf’s household put on a great feast after his funeral, to honor his memory.
Deogol sat at his usual place at the table, having given the ealdorman’s seat to the king, and held up a drinking horn filled with mead.
“To my brother!” he boomed. “May he find feasting, wenches, and plenty of mead in the afterlife!”
This toast brought roars of approval from many of the warriors seated at the long tables that formed a square around the fire pit.
However, Bishop Wilfrid—who sat opposite Deogol—glowered at the warrior when he sat down.
It was no Christian afterlife that Deogol spoke of.
Farther down the table, Bishop Godwin’s face was expressionless.
Watching Hagustaldes’ bishop, Aldfrith felt a pang of regret.
He should have stepped in when Wilfrid had bullied the man earlier, yet it had not been the place for a scene.
Even so, he would need to have a word with Wilfrid when they were next alone.
He could not have him upsetting the other bishops like this.
Aldfrith swallowed a sigh at the thought. Wilfrid was fast becoming a thorn in his arse; the man’s arrogance and bullish approach to the other men of the cloth in the kingdom was fast making him unpopular. It appeared there was only one right way to follow God—and that was Wilfrid’s way.
Osana, who had been given her usual spot at the head of the table one last time, took a sip of mead from her cup, welcoming its sweet pungency.
She was glad of Deogol’s toast though. Raedwulf would have enjoyed that.
Beside Deogol, Edlyn sat, red-eyed and wan-faced. The sight of her made Osana’s anger rise in a slow heat that caused her to tighten her grip on her cup. The woman did not even try to hide her grief, not even before her husband.
Is Deogol blind?
Maybe he was. Deogol was the same breed of man as his dead brother: brave, strong, and utterly oblivious to the feelings of others. He completely ignored his wife as he offered the king some roast boar.
“This is the beast that ended my brother, sire,” he informed Aldfrith. “He asked us to roast it for his funeral feast.”
Osana took a larger—more fortifying—gulp of mead.
Of course he did.
“The creature might as well be put to good use,” Aldfrith replied with a half-smile, taking a slice of meat. He passed the platter to Osana. “Some boar?”
Osana took the dish and gave herself a tiny slice before passing it on. “Thank you,” she murmured.
The feasting began, accompanied by numerous toasts and even more mead. A lad sat near the hearth playing a bone whistle, the music almost drowned out by the roar of conversation.
“Are you well, Osana?”
The question, spoken in a low voice, caught her off-guard. Osana had been staring at the platter before her, forcing down each mouthful of food, before she washed it down with mead. She did not usually drink so much and was starting to feel quite light-headed.
She glanced up, to find Aldfrith watching her.
“Aye,” she replied. “I’ve little appetite this eve, that’s all.”
He nodded. “I can understand that.”
“More mead?” Edlyn appeared at Osana’s shoulder then. She had been given the task of filling the feasters’ cups. However, the woman wore a pinched expression.
“Aye, thank you.” Osana held out her cup.
Edlyn sloshed mead into it, so violently that it splashed over the rim and onto the bust of Osana’s mourning tunic: a dark, high necked garment made of wool.
“Sorry, Osana.” Edlyn chimed, a gleam in her eyes. She moved on then to the king.
“Some mead, milord?” she asked sweetly.
Aldfrith shook his head, and Osana’s sister-by-marriage moved on.
Drawing in a deep breath, Osana glanced down at the dark patch covering the front of her tunic. The garment was dark anyway, so it did not really matter. What mattered was that the balance of power had already shifted within the hall.
Raedwulf’s ashes were still warm, but already Edlyn was assuming her role as lady of the house. A sinking sensation made Osana reach for her cup of mead once more.
Life was about to get difficult. She could sense it.
Osana raised her eyes once more, to see the king’s gaze still upon her. The concern on his face made the sinking sensation grow. He was a stranger to this hall, and had only just met Deogol and his wife—and yet he knew.
“And how are you faring, milord,” she said, after a moment.
He favored her with a tired smile. “Well enough.”
“And your queen? How is Cuthburh?”
She was surprised the queen had not accompanied him here.
He stiffened at that, his gaze narrowing. Osana immediately regretted the question.
“Cuthburh is well … I believe,” he began, his voice low as he glanced down at the knife he was toying with. “However, I cannot know for sure. She has left me … has gone to Berecingas to take her vows.”
Osana stared at him, surprise rendering her mute. When she eventually found her tongue, her face grew warm with mortification. “I’m sorry, sire … I didn’t realize …”
He waved her feeble apology away. “You didn’t know—few do. It happened just a few days ago.”
Osana watched him, searching his face for signs of grief. But he wore an unreadable expression. Only his eyes gave him away, and they bore a look of resignation rather than sadness.
“So things never improved?” she asked softly.
He shook his head. “She suffered through every day of our marriage. She’s happier now … I suppose we both are.”
He did not look happy, Osana observed. Her gaze dropped then to where he continued to toy with the blade of his knife, a nervous gesture and the only sign that this conversation put him on edge.
Like that day in the orchard, which seemed so long ago now, she observed the beauty of his hands: strong, with long fingers, and yet sensitive. So different from Raedwulf’s heavy, blunt hands.
What would it feel like to have him touch her? What would his fingertips feel like trailing across her naked skin?
God’s bones—what am I doing?
Osana jerked her gaze away.
It must be the shock of losing Raedwulf, the emotional-wrench of the funeral, and her anxiety at her new status in this hall. Otherwise, why else would she entertain such thoughts?
“Will you wed again?” she asked lightly, shifting her gaze to the barely touched platter before her. Osana’s stomach clenched in a knot.
“The bishop would have me wed another—possibly a princess of Mercia or the East Angles—to strengthen our alliances in the south. However, I’d prefer not to.”
Osana nodded. “I can understand that.” She paused then, glancing up and meeting his eye once more. “It’s easier for men. You can choose never to wed again and folk will accept that. However, a widow is useless … an embarrassment.”
He frowned. “Is that what you think you are?”
She clenched her jaw and paused before responding.
“I know it to be true. I can weave, cook, and sew, but there is little other purpose for me here now that Raedwulf is gone.” She broke off here, aware just how bitter she sounded.
Yet now that she had started to reveal what lay in her heart, she could not stop.
“Deogol and Edlyn will wish I’d thrown myself upon the bier and burned along with Raedwulf. A truly devoted wife might have.”
The look of empathy on Aldfrith’s face made her want to weep.
“You have choices, Osana,” he replied. “You don’t have to stay here.”
She huffed out a breath. “Aye … I could enter a nunnery or wed again. Yet I fear a nun’s life would wear me down, and no man will have me.”
He made a scoffing sound. “Nonsense.”
Osana shook her head. “I cannot bear children,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “No man wants a barren wife.”
Her vision swam then, and she glanced down, blinking furiously. Curse her for drinking so much mead. It had made her imprudent.
A long silence drew out between them, while the hall roared with drunken laughter, cheering, and music. It was as if they sat upon an island, apart from it all.
Aldfrith spoke first. “You have another choice too, Osana.”
She glanced up, forcing herself to look at him. He must think her hysterical and indiscreet. Yet she saw no scorn on his face, only compassion.
“If you decide you cannot remain here in Hagustaldes, Bebbanburg will welcome you,” he continued. “You will always have a home in my hall and will live under my protection if you need it. I promise you that.”