Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-one
My Bride Awaits
CERDIC RETURNED FROM Inhrypum in the early afternoon the following day. He cantered into the inner palisade upon a lathered horse, the priest Oswald perched behind him. The other members of Cerdic’s party thundered in moments later.
Oswald's face was pinched and tired. He looked as if Cerdic had made him ride through the night, which he probably had in order to get to Inhrypum and back in this time.
Aldfrith stood at the top of the steps before the Great Tower and waited for the priest to dismount. Oswald did so, wincing as his sandaled feet hit the ground. Straightening up and brushing off his dark robes, Oswald’s gaze traveled to where the king stood watching him.
The priest’s brow furrowed.
Not bothering to say a word to Cerdic, Oswald picked up the hem of his robes and hurried across the yard, head bowed, before mounting the steps. Cerdic tossed his reins to one of the other men and strode after him.
“Milord.” Oswald stopped a few feet below where the king stood and gave a hurried bow. Aldfrith could see he was bristling, indignant.
“Good day, Oswald,” Aldfrith replied with a smile. “I take it that Cerdic has told you why you’ve been summoned back to Bebbanburg so urgently.”
Oswald nodded, his throat bobbing. It was clear he held a strong opinion about this, which he was wisely keeping to himself.
The priest was no fool. Over the past years, he had skulked in Wilfrid’s shadow whenever the bishop visited the fort, often appearing his disciple.
But without his mentor at his side, he was less brave.
He knew his place, and Aldfrith was grateful for it; he was tired of being constantly challenged.
Relations with the ealdormen Wulfred and Edwin had been frosty ever since his return.
They had both tried to heckle him over his lack of interest in rebuilding Northumbria’s army during supper the night before.
His calmness and accompanying stubbornness had riled them both.
However, he knew it would not be the end of the matter.
It seemed his ealdormen were only too eager to warmonger, but Aldfrith would have no part in it.
Before the king, Oswald bowed his head, his shoulders rounding. He was not a happy man, yet he was ready to do the king’s bidding.
“Come, Oswald,” Aldfrith ordered gently. “My bride awaits.”
Osana stood upon the high seat and faced the King of Northumbria.
Dressed simply, yet richly, Aldfrith was distractingly handsome today.
A black leather vest studded in gold and iron covered his chest, leaving his finely muscled arms bare.
His father’s fine grey wolfskin cloak hung from his shoulders, clasped by a gleaming amber brooch.
He wore doeskin breeches and long dark boots.
Aldfrith looked down at her, his expression soft, his eyes tender.
Finally, they were about to be wed.
There had been moments, as she lay awake in her alcove listening to the soft sound of Lora’s breathing, when she had worried it would never happen. And yet here she was, dressed in a soft green gown that fitted her curves snugly, with meadow daisies woven through her hair.
The aroma of roasting meat drifted through the hall as the final preparations were made for the feast that would follow the handfasting.
A murmur of voices surrounded them as the folk of Bebbanburg—both those who resided within the inner palisade, and many of those who lived in the tightly packed streets beyond—pushed into the Great Hall.
Osana breathed in the excitement surrounding her.
Despite her fears, the mood was joyous. There would be a handful of folk among the crowd, Mildryth and Eldflaed among them, who watched her with hard eyes, but most people who jostled for position on the floor below the high seat seemed in high spirits. Few folk did not like a handfasting.
Lora and Cerdic stood nearby, with the king’s most loyal retainers. Lora and Osana shared a look before her friend grinned. Beside Lora, Cerdic was smiling, his arm draped protectively around her shoulders.
Osana shifted her attention back to Aldfrith. He gave her a melting look in return that made her breathing hitch. Tonight they would lie together as husband and wife.
They stood before Oswald, who hunched between them like a trapped hare. The priest’s face was solemn, his gaze pained. He cleared his throat and stepped forward, a length of linen in his hands.
The hum of voices around them died. Expectation charged the air.
“The union of man and wife is a union of two souls,” Oswald began, holding the ribbon aloft.
“This cord is not permanent but perishable. It is a reminder that all things of the material eventually return to the earth, unlike the bond and the connection that is love, which is eternal.” The priest’s voice, although low, carried over the now silent hall.
Oswald’s gaze darted up to Aldfrith and then Osana. “Please join your right hands.”
They did as bid. Osana’s breathing quickened as Aldfrith wove his fingers through hers and squeezed. Then Oswald stepped close to them and started to wind the ribbon around their joined hands. And as he wrapped the ribbon, he spoke the words that would bind them.
“With this cloth I bind your souls
May you know nothing but happiness from this day forward.
May the road rise to meet you
May the wind be always at your back
May the warm rays of sun fall upon your home
And may the hand of a friend always be near.
May green be the grass you walk on,
May blue be the skies above you,
May pure be the joys that surround you,
May true be the hearts that love you.”
Oswald finished speaking, and a deep hush fell in the hall. The priest, who had now lost his cowed expression, straightened his spine, his gaze returning to Aldfrith and Osana. “I now—”
“Wait! This handfasting is a farce—it must not take place!”
A harsh voice carried across the hall.
Unfortunately, it was a voice that Osana had come to know well. She tore her gaze from Aldfrith’s and let it travel across the sea of heads between them and the heavy doors that led out into the entrance hall.
There, framed in the doorway, was a tall robed figure.
Bishop Wilfrid’s face was the color of liver, his gaze livid. Even at this distance, Osana could feel the weight of his rage.
“This ceremony must stop,” he roared, spittle flying. “I name the bride a ‘wicce’. She has ensnared the king, but now this evil business will end.”
The vehemence in those words caused ice to wash over Osana, dousing her excitement and joy in an instant. Such hate. Yet as she watched him, she realized that Wilfrid’s wrath was not aimed at her but at Aldfrith. His gaze speared the king, dislike carved into his gaunt face.
Realization dawned. This was revenge for every imagined slight against him over the past years, every time the king had thwarted his plans.
After Aldfrith had so effectively curtailed the bishop’s power, Wilfrid would not see the king happy.
Like the ealdormen, he wanted Aldfrith as his puppet.
If he would not do his bidding, then he would be punished.
During the interruption, Aldfrith had not spoken a word.
Tearing her gaze from the bishop, Osana glanced across at the man who had just been moments away from becoming her husband—her breathing stilling when she saw his face.
His skin was bloodless and pulled tight over his cheekbones. He wore an expression she had never yet seen, chilling in its fury. He looked dangerous—angry enough to kill.
Aldfrith had been watching the bishop, but now he shifted his attention to the foot of the high seat where two leather-clad figures stood: Edwin of Gefrin and Wulfred of Catraeth. Osana followed Aldfrith’s gaze, her belly clenching when she observed the men’s faces.
Both had worn sour expressions before the ceremony, yet their mood had altered now. Wulfred smirked, his mouth twitching as if he was swallowing a laugh. Next to him, Edwin did not even attempt to hide his glee. A broad smile twisted his face, and his eyes gleamed.
“Cousin Edwin,” Aldfrith growled. “Please tell me you’re not behind this?”
Edwin’s broad smile widened further. “I cannot lie, sire.” The victory in the ealdorman’s voice made Osana wince. “I had one of my men follow yours south to Inhrypum. Someone had to tell the bishop.”
“You slippery bastard.” Cerdic had left Lora’s side and now stepped forward, hands clenched, his face a mask of fury. “You had no place to have me followed.”
“But it was just as well he did.” Wilfrid was now elbowing his way through the crowd.
“And as for you, bishop,” Cerdic growled. “Someone should teach you how to speak to a king.”
“Cerdic.” Aldfrith’s voice held a sharp warning. “Step down. I will deal with this.”
The warrior frowned. “But sire—”
“You heard me.”
Cerdic’s frown deepened to a scowl, yet he did as bid.
Meanwhile, the bishop had nearly reached the front of the crowd. “Oswald you fool—what are you doing?”
“Father …” The priest blanched, shuffling back slightly. “I had to—”
“Faithless craven,” Wilfrid spat. “I shall deal with you later. For now, untie the ribbon. Let this travesty end.”
Oswald did not move. “Father, I don’t think—”
“Do it!”
Still, the priest did not move.
“Untie the ribbon, Oswald.” It was Aldfrith who made the command this time, his voice low and cold. The king did not look Oswald’s way as he spoke; instead his gaze remained fixed upon the bishop, who bore down upon him like an enraged crow.
Wilfrid had drawn a wooden crucifix out from under his robes. He now held it out before him as he approached, as if he were warding off Satan himself. “I shun the witch’s evil eye!”
Around him, the crowd shuffled back from the high seat to let the bishop through. His comment brought mutterings, and many folk crossed themselves, sharing nervous glances.
Osana’s heart started to pound. Wilfrid was clever; he was playing on the mob’s superstitions. If he had his way, she would be stoned out of Bebbanburg and drowned in the sea.
Meanwhile, Oswald had done as Aldfrith had bid and deftly unwrapped the ribbon binding Osana and the king’s right hands.
As soon as he was free, Aldfrith moved.
It happened so swiftly, in barely a heartbeat, that Osana had no chance to reach out for Aldfrith, to forestall him.
One instant he had been standing at her side, the next he stepped down off the high seat and struck out with his right fist.
The crunch of the blow echoed through the hall. Wilfrid, who had just opened his mouth to spew forth another volley of vitriol, staggered, his head snapping back under the force of the punch.
A moment later the bishop went down like a sack of millet on the rush-covered floor.