Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-two
Not Worthy of the Crown
SILENCE REVERBERATED AROUND the hall.
Edwin of Gefrin was the first to recover from the shock of seeing Bishop Wilfrid laid out for all to see. He stepped away from Wulfred’s side, his face a mask of self-righteous anger. “Witness all. Your king has struck down a man of God!”
Aldfrith turned, fists still clenched, to face the ealdorman. “Still your tongue, Edwin.” The warning was spoken softly, cold rage inflected in every word.
But Edwin would not be silenced. Watching from atop the high seat, frozen to the spot as if her feet had grown roots, Osana felt a sickly realization wash over her. She felt as if this whole scene had been orchestrated, as if all of them—Wilfrid included—had merely been playing a part.
It was this man, Aldfrith’s cousin Edwin, who was manipulating them all. And now he stepped forward to perform the last part of his carefully planned act.
“A king who would strike down a bishop is not worthy of the crown.” A groan followed his words as, on the rushes a few feet away, Wilfrid stirred. However, Edwin was not looking at the bishop. His attention was upon Aldfrith, whom he now stalked toward with the predatory stealth of a wolf.
A warning screamed in the back of Osana’s skull, a moment before she saw Edwin stoop down and retrieve something from his boot. Iron gleamed in the firelight.
A seax.
Weapons were forbidden inside the Great Hall: to carry one was an insult to the king. Yet Edwin wielded a blade now, and Osana knew what he planned to do.
Edwin wanted the crown.
“Aldfrith,” she gasped, lunging toward the men. Oswald grabbed hold of her, hauling her back. “Wait, Lady Osana,” he grunted. “It’s too dangerous.”
But Aldfrith had also seen the blade—as had the folk clustered closest to the foot of the high seat. Many of their faces blanched, their eyes growing wide with fear.
“It’s time a warrior fit to rule took his rightful place in this hall,” Edwin said, flashing Aldfrith a vicious grin. “Not a craven scholar.”
And with that Edwin lunged.
A scream split the air. It was Lora, for Cerdic—casting aside the king’s earlier command—leaped forward to intercept his attacker.
But before Cerdic reached Edwin, Wulfred of Catraeth tackled the warrior, bringing him down. The ealdorman of Catraeth was not going to let Edwin be thwarted. Grunts ensued as the two men fought on the floor.
Edwin kept moving, the blade of the fighting dagger flashing as he swung it toward the king.
Helpless, unable to do anything but watch the scene unfold, Osana stared at that blade. Grief ripped into her chest, making it impossible to breathe. The man she loved was about to die.
Aldfrith did not panic, did not cry out. He watched Edwin lunge for him, and then did the last thing Osana expected.
He moved toward him, sidestepping the blade, and grabbed hold of the ealdorman’s thick wrist.
Edwin had been moving so fast that the momentum carried him straight into the king. Aldfrith brought his leg up sharply and kneed his attacker in the cods before felling him with a sharp blow to the side of his neck.
Edwin of Gefrin was a big man, his body a coiled mass of muscle built over a lifetime of fighting, but Aldfrith’s blow easily felled him nonetheless. Edwin roared as he fell, clutching his injured cods with one hand, his blade still gripped in the other.
Aldfrith stepped forward and slammed his foot down on the ealdorman’s wrist, grinding it into the ground until the man released his hold on the seax.
Then, the king reached down and retrieved it. When he spoke, his voice carried over the hall. “Aye, I’m a scholar, Edwin … but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to defend myself.” His voice was chill. “My uncle Daragh taught me well it seems.”
“Your mother was an ériu hōre,” Edwin grunted, still defiant. “Just because Oswiu sired you doesn’t give you the right to be king. I’m of pure Angle blood, Oswiu’s nephew … it should have been me.”
“It takes more than blood to make a king,” Aldfrith replied, “and you’ve just proved you’re not worthy of the crown.”
Edwin spat out a series of expletives that caused the crowd around him to gasp. Aldfrith remained unmoved.
A few feet away, Cerdic got to his feet, blood streaming from his nose. Wulfred of Catraeth did not rise. He lay curled up, hands cupping a bloodied mouth.
Aldfrith turned to his captain. “Cerdic, see to it that these two men are stripped naked, tied over the back of their horses, and driven out of Bebbanburg. Send word to Gefrin and Catraeth that they are in need of new ealdormen, for these two men no longer hold that rank.”
Cerdic nodded, pinching his bleeding nose. “I will see it done, sire,” he replied, his voice muffled.
Osana felt the priest’s grip on her arm release. Like her, he realized the danger had passed; Aldfrith had taken control of the situation. A respectful silence now filled the hall.
Cerdic and his men closed in on the two former ealdormen, hauling them to their feet.
Around them the crowd opened, creating a passageway to the doors.
Pallid and wild-eyed, Wulfred and Edwin struggled against their captors, their howls of rage and curses echoing for a long while after their departure.
Aldfrith turned to his remaining warriors, who had now formed a protective horseshoe around the king. “Get the bishop to his feet.”
Wilfrid groaned as two men hauled him upright. A purple welt now showed on his jaw where Aldfrith had struck him, and his gaze was glazed.
“You’re an ambitious fool, Father,” Aldfrith said after a long pause, regret shadowing the coolness in his voice. “Edwin played you like a lyre, used you as his weapon, and you never saw it.”
The bishop sagged in the warriors’ arms, and seeing the desolation on his face, Osana almost felt sorry for him. A moment later she remembered how he had treated her, how he would have had her killed if it had served his purpose, and her pity faded.
“Forgive me, sire,” he rasped.
“I will, in time,” Aldfrith replied. “But that does not mean I will suffer your presence in my kingdom any longer. Bishop Wilfrid, you are exiled. Take your leave of this hall, and be gone from Northumbria, never to return.”
Wilfrid blanched, his eyes bulging. “Milord, I—”
“That is all,” Aldfrith cut him off, his voice sharp. “Another word, and you shall suffer the same fate as the ealdormen.”
Wilfrid’s mouth worked, yet no sound came out this time. Silently, he allowed the warriors to lead him from the hall.
A shocked hush followed in his wake. All gazes swiveled back to the king once the bishop had departed. Osana watched their faces, her own shock mirroring theirs. She too had never seen this side to Aldfrith. It both impressed and frightened her.
Did she know the man she was to wed at all?
Aldfrith turned from the crowd and stepped back up onto the high seat, sheathing the seax in his belt as he did so. His gaze, when it met hers, was of the man she had come to know and love. The cold fury of earlier had gone.
“Aldfrith,” she whispered. “I …” Her voice trailed off. She was not sure what to say.
His mouth quirked, and his eyes shadowed. “I’m sorry you had to see that, my love,” he replied, regret edging his voice. “It seems I have far more of my father in me than I thought.”
“And we are glad of it, sire,” Oswald spoke up nervously. “The bishop went too far … and Edwin had to be stopped.”
“Aye,” Aldfrith replied, his gaze never leaving Osana’s face. “But I see the fear in my bride’s eyes.” He stepped closer to her, and, reaching out, took Osana’s hand. “Your skin is so cold.” His gaze narrowed. “Are you well?”
Osana wet her lips before nodding. “I’m in shock … that’s all.”
He gazed into her eyes and gently squeezed her hand. “After all you’ve just witnessed, do you still want me?”
The question was asked with a light tone, yet she saw the aching tenderness, the concern in his gaze. He really was worried she would no longer want to wed him.
Osana raised an eyebrow. “Do you believe me to be so fickle?” She paused then, searching for the right words before continuing.
“You forget … I was wed to a warrior for many years. I know what men are capable of … what they have to do to survive. Edwin forced your hand. You had to fight or die.” They watched each other for a long moment before Osana smiled.
“They all underestimated you though … a mistake no one will make again.”
Aldfrith huffed. “Is that respect I hear in your voice? It seems I should have used my fists to settle quarrels years ago.”
Osana’s smile widened. She did not want to admit it, but there was something magnetic about the way he had handled himself. “You make me sound shallow,” she admonished him softly. “I already respected you. I love you, Aldfrith.”
Aldfrith smiled then, an intimate, beguiling smile that made Osana’s belly flutter.
A few feet away, the priest cleared his throat. “Sorry for the interruption, sire … but you are not yet man and wife. I didn’t get the chance to complete the ceremony.”
Aldfrith glanced Oswald’s way, his smile fading. “Very well … let us pick up where we left off.” He shifted his attention back to Osana. “If the lady is willing?”
Osana squeezed the hand that still held hers. “Aye, I am.”
An excited hum built around them as Oswald retied the ribbon around their joined hands. Osana did not have to glance over at the watching crowd to know that folk were smiling; she could sense their approval, for it bathed her like a warm bath at the end of a cold winter’s day.
The bishop and the ealdormen had unwittingly transformed her and Aldfrith before the folk of Bebbanburg. Stories would be told about this day around the fire pit for many years to come.
“May true be the hearts that love you,” Oswald said when he had finished binding the ribbon. “I now pronounce you man and wife.” He paused here, his cheeks reddening as an embarrassed smile creased his face. “You may kiss your bride, milord.”
The hall thundered with applause as Aldfrith did just that. He drew Osana into his arms, his mouth slanting across hers in a deep kiss.