Chapter Fourteen
Out of Sight
ALDFRITH SETTLED INTO his carven chair, his gaze returning to the pale-faced woman who now took a seat to his left. Osana’s face was taut, her hazel eyes startled, and her shoulders tense.
The widow looked different to the last time he had seen her: gone were the mourning clothes and head-rail that had framed her face in Hagustaldes.
Instead, she wore a high-necked, woolen tunic that fitted her curvaceous form snugly, girded at the waist with a narrow leather belt.
Her hair—the color of richly polished oak—fell in a thick braid over one shoulder.
Opposite Osana, Bishop Wilfrid helped himself to another cup of mead, studying her with a jaundiced eye. “You are a bold woman,” the bishop commented. “To walk into your king’s hall and demand he take you in. Have you no shame?”
Osana visibly blanched at the reprimand. However, she did not look away from the bishop. Her chin rose as she answered him. “The king invited me here, Father.”
“I did, so let us dispense with the accusations,” Aldfrith swiftly added. “Let us eat in peace.”
“Aye,” Cerdic piped up from where he sat next to the bishop. “You’ve a scowl that could curdle milk, Father.”
Osana’s handmaid, who was circling the table with a jug of mead, grinned at Cerdic’s comment. She was blonde with a pretty smile and bright blue eyes.
Aldfrith too fought a smile; Cerdic said little, but when he did speak, his words were known to hit the mark.
Wilfrid’s scowl deepened, and he cast the warrior an icy look. Yet Cerdic just ignored him and held up his cup to be filled. As he did so, the warrior saw Osana’s handmaid was still smiling and favored her with a wink.
The woman inclined her head in answer.
Watching them, Aldfrith noted it was the first time he had seen Cerdic interact with a woman in such a light-hearted manner. The arrival of this bright-eyed woman had drawn his eye.
Cerdic was not the only one distracted.
Aldfrith found it difficult to focus on the trencher of mutton stew and braised onions that a servant placed before him. Osana—even pale and tense as she was—made his hunger disappear.
It had been a shock to see her.
He had regretted making that offer after her husband’s funeral, had thought upon his rash words all the way back to Bebbanburg. But with the passing of the months, he had relaxed, confident she had dismissed his offer as folly.
Bishop Wilfrid, despite his blunt way of putting things, was right.
It was not seemly for an attractive widow to walk into his hall, unescorted, and remind him of his promise.
He had seen the panic on her face though when they had locked eyes earlier; she had regretted coming here, had wanted to flee.
Even now, she looked poised to run. If the bishop continued to sting her, she would, for she was a proud woman with an independent spirit.
Aldfrith drew in a deep breath and started on his meal.
Fool.
He should have kept his mouth shut. But she had looked so lonely sitting there after the funeral—a show of brittle strength—that the words had been out before he could stop them.
The truth was that he did not want her here.
Life had been simpler after Cuthburh’s departure.
For the first time since leaving the peace of Iona, he had begun to enjoy life again.
He no longer had to suffer stony silences at every mealtime or lie watching his wife’s back night after night.
These days he shared his alcove only with his hound, and Argus was far more pleasant company.
He had fallen into a comfortable routine at Bebbanburg now; his time was divided between ruling, writing, and hawking.
He enjoyed his contact with the people he ruled and had grown comfortable with making the decisions that went with his role.
The folk of Northumbria seemed to have accepted him as their king too.
Aldfrith glanced up, his gaze settling once more upon Osana. She was picking at her meal, eyes downcast. The light of the cressets behind her illuminated her smooth, milky skin and long eyelashes.
The truth was that this woman had fascinated him from the first moment he had set eyes upon her. She made him feel restless, she took away his peace. If she was to remain in Bebbanburg, he would need to keep her at arm’s length.
Aldfrith had fought hard to regain his equilibrium, to find his place in the world. He liked his life as it was—safe, predictable, and measured.
“We should leave.” Osana folded up a tunic and placed it upon a narrow wooden shelf. “I can’t live here.”
“Hwaet?” Lora’s incredulous response made Osana glance over her shoulder. Her friend wore an exasperated expression. “After everything you put yourself through today? For that alone, you deserve to stay.”
Osana huffed out a breath. “You saw the king’s face. He was mortified. I embarrassed him by coming here.”
“Aye, but he recovered swiftly enough.” Lora’s expression grew sly then. “He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
Osana’s chest constricted. This was not welcome news. “Even more reason to leave,” she replied, turning away so Lora would not see her embarrassment. “The bishop spoke true. I’ve been overly bold.”
Lora snorted. “That old crow.”
Osana pulled out another tunic from her pack and folded it. Despite her tense mood, a smile tugged at her mouth. Lora’s irreverence was comforting. She had even made the king’s captain soften his expression.
“He wasn’t the only one who glared at me,” Osana said after a long pause. “Did see the way those women weaving looked at me after the noon meal.”
“No worse than how Edlyn used to glare. At least none of them carries a personal grievance against you.”
Osana sighed and looked around the alcove.
It was easily three times the size of the space she had occupied in Deogol’s hall.
A large pile of furs for her dominated one corner, with another bed for Lora opposite.
The scent of crushed lavender, for the herb had been scattered over the rushes underfoot, filled the alcove, and a single cresset burned on the walls.
Beyond the heavy tapestry that shielded them from view, she could hear the murmur of voices as folk readied themselves to retire for the evening, the clang of pots as servants cleaned up, and the groan of the wind buffeting the tower walls.
“Do you want to stay here, Lora?” she asked, glancing over at her.
Lora met her gaze, her expression turning serious. “I’ll happily go wherever you do, Osana.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Lora shrugged. “Aye, I’d be happy to remain here, but if you’d truly prefer to travel to Jedworth, then so be it … only, you should give Bebbanburg a chance. At least wait the winter out. By spring, you might see things differently.”
Snow fell the first night of Osana’s arrival in Bebbanburg.
She awoke the following morning to find a blanket of white covering the world.
The chill seeped into the tower through the damp stone.
Away from the four roaring fire pits, the cold drilled into her joints and numbed her fingers.
Swathed in furs, Osana broke her fast with bread and broth, before she and Lora joined the group of women who spent their days spinning and weaving.
Osana picked up her distaff and a basket of wool, preparing to start work.
The women—thegns’ wives—did not give Osana a warm welcome.
Even Eldflaed, the woman who had been so chatty with Osana during her last visit to the fort, ignored her.
The morning stretched out, and Osana started to enjoy being left in peace.
As Lora had pointed out, there was no strong ill-feeling toward her, only a watchful distrust.
If she worked hard and minded her manners, Osana would be accepted in time.
Across the hall, she spotted the king emerging from his alcove and cross to the high seat, where he broke his fast with his men. She watched them talking, glad that Aldfrith had not seen her. It was best she remained a shadow here: out of sight, beneath notice.
The king did not linger at the table long. After a short discussion with his companions, he rose from the high seat and strode from the hall, a grey wolfhound loping at his side. His men followed him.
The morning passed slowly, and after a long spell winding wool onto a distaff, Osana put her spindle aside and went outdoors while Lora went to help the other servants prepare the noon meal.
The sting of the icy air hit Osana across the face as she gingerly made her way down the slippery steps to the yard below. The wind had died, and it had started to snow again, gentle fluttering flakes that drifted down from an ashen sky.
She turned her face up to it, enjoying the feel of the snowflakes kissing her skin. A moment later a group of horses rode under the high gate into the yard.
The king led them. Snow frosted his mantle and blond hair. His hound followed close behind, tongue lolling. Aldfrith carried a quiver of arrows and a longbow over one shoulder, as did many of his men. A boar carcass was slung over the back of one of the horses.
Standing there in the midst of the yard, Osana felt dangerously exposed. She looked around for somewhere to hide, but it was too late. Aldfrith had already seen her.
He pulled up his horse just a couple of yards away from Osana and swung down off its back, his boots sinking into a foot of snow.
“Good day, Lady Osana,” he greeted her.
“A chill morning for a hunt, milord,” she replied.
He smiled at that before gesturing to the boar that dripped crimson blood onto the milk-white snow. “It’s easier to spot prey in the snow.” He reached down and patted his hound’s head, for the beast had sat down at his feet. “However, Argus nearly got himself gored.”
Osana pulled her fur mantle close, casting an eye over the dog. “I’ve never heard a hound called by that name before.”
“It’s a name from my mother’s people,” he replied. “Argus is a mythical creature with a hundred eyes. A good name for a sighthound, I think.”
“Aye, the beast has his uses,” the king’s captain, who had entered the stable yard behind Aldfrith, added. He dismounted from his horse and nudged the dog with his foot. “But for the most part, he just takes up space before the fire … and farts.”
Osana laughed, the sound echoing out across the still morning. Shocked at the loud sound of her mirth, she clapped her hand across her mouth. Yet when she glanced over at Aldfrith, she saw he was smiling.
Their gazes locked and held for a long, drawn-out heartbeat.
Lora trudged through the snow, her fur-lined boots sinking through the pristine crust. The air was so cold outdoors that it stung her face. In one hand she carried a wooden bucket, while with the other she did her best to pull her fur mantle close.
“Thunor’s balls,” she muttered. It was one of her favorite curses—one that her father had taught her. “Any colder and my breath will freeze.”
She walked toward the stone well that sat on the edge of the stable yard, just beyond the orchard. She and Osana needed some fresh water for their alcove, for washing.
Crossing the yard, she saw men leading out horses from the stables while the stalls were mucked out. One of the warriors—the man who had winked at her the day prior—was checking the horses’ hooves.
He had been the first person to greet them upon their arrival at the Great Tower.
She could not recall his name, but there was something about him that fascinated her.
He wore an intimidating expression most of the time, and yet she had seen yesterday that he had a dry sense of humor.
It had been a while since a man had made her laugh—not since Broga.
Lora’s gaze slid over the warrior, taking in the breadth of his leather-clad shoulders and chest, and the strength in his arms that gleamed with armrings. Not since Broga had a man even drawn her eye, yet this one did.
So intent was she on staring that Lora failed to notice the patch of ice that spread out around the well, where the snow had frozen solid. The moment her booted foot stepped upon it, her legs flew out from under her.
With a scream, Lora fell onto her back, the bucket flying from her hand.
“Cods,” she muttered as she struggled to right herself. She had sunk into the snow and was now cast like a sheep. Her face flamed; she hoped none of the warriors outside the stables had seen her tumble. She needed to get to her feet before one of them did.
Too late.
A shadow fell over her, and a deep male voice intruded. “Are you hurt?”
Lora looked up into laughing male eyes, heat rising up her neck when she realized it was the warrior she had just been staring at.
“No,” she replied, embarrassment making her snappish.
“Here.” Grinning now, he held out a hand. “You look like you could do with some help.”
Lora reached out, grasping his hand. The warmth and strength of it felt good, and she tightened her grip on him before pulling herself up. He lifted her easily, as if she were no more than a child.
A moment later they were standing close. Lora let go of him and made a fuss of brushing snow off herself, flustered now. “Thank you,” she murmured. She was not usually this coy, did not usually have problems meeting a man’s eye. Yet she suddenly felt shy.
“You’re welcome,” he replied, his voice warm, the laughter now gone. “We weren’t introduced yesterday. I’m Cerdic.”
She glanced up, her gaze meeting dark brown eyes. His expression was warm, a slight smile tugging at his mouth. Warmth spread through her then, and she felt her own lips curving in response. “My name is Lora.”