Chapter Nine
In Search of Aelfwyn
SUNLIGHT FILTERED INTO the store hut through a crack in the wooden door—alerting Aelfwyn that she had indeed slept through the entire night and most of the morning too.
Stretching on her makeshift bed, she glanced over at the wooden crate next to the pile of sacking and saw that one of the monks had left her a cup of milk and a large wedge of griddle bread and cheese.
Her mouth watered at the sight of it—she was ravenous.
She sat up, rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, and started on her meal, not pausing until only crumbs remained on the wooden plate.
Outside, she heard the scrape and rustle of monks moving around, going about their daily tasks.
Although she would heed her saviors’ counsel to stay hidden, she longed to venture out into the sunlight and stretch her cramped limbs.
Instead, she stood up, wincing at the aches and pains in her body, and peered through a gap in the door planks.
It was a calm and sunny day outside. Two monks—although not the two who had saved her—were busy stocking the shelves of the hut opposite: huge wheels of white cheese from the milk of sheep and goats that Aelfwyn guessed must also live on the island.
They finished their task, bolted the door shut, and moved back toward the center of the complex. Aelfwyn watched them go, relieved they had ignored her hiding place. However, she would not be able to remain here much longer; Leofric and Deorwine had been kind, but they risked much by hiding her.
At the next low tide, I will go.
Aelfwyn left the door and sat back down on her pile of sacking.
Leofric had visited her once more last night, to make sure she was well, before leaving her.
Although she appreciated his concern, she had been relieved to see him go.
Only then did she unleash the grief—the pain—she had been bottling up ever since she had first awoken.
She had curled up on the sacking, stuffed a fist in her mouth in an attempt to stifle the noise, and sobbed until exhaustion swallowed her. She felt drained this morning—and although letting herself go last night had taken the rawness off her grief, it was still there, shadowing every moment.
Reaching behind her, Aelfwyn checked the state of her linen under-tunic and the woolen dress she had worn over it; they were both dry, although a little stiff from the salty seawater.
She shucked off the monk’s habit she wore and quickly dressed in her own clothes.
Then, for warmth, she pulled the habit over the top of her dress.
She had left her fur mantle and boots on the beach; the monk's robe would have to take its place and could offer her some disguise once she reached the mainland.
What then?
Ecgfrith had torn Aelfwyn’s old life away from her. She would never return to Bebbanburg, not while he ruled it. Nor could she return home to Rendlaesham. Her parents would be ashamed of her—if they believed her story at all—and were likely to send her right back to Northumbria.
I’ll never see Aethelhild again.
Tears smarted Aelfwyn’s already red-rimmed and swollen eyes. Ecgfrith had destroyed everything. She loathed him for it but was powerless to take vengeance to make him pay for what he had done.
Once she left Lindisfarena the only option open to her was the one she had once shunned in favor of service to Aethelhild: to take her vows and become a nun. Nunneries and abbeys were not just places where women could worship God in peace, but islands of safety in a brutal world.
The abbey of Streonshalh lay some distance to the south.
They had passed it on the journey from Rendlaesham; Aelfwyn reckoned it was at least ten days’ journey on foot.
She was not sure she was capable of traveling that far—especially on her own.
If the king’s men did not catch her, she would likely die of thirst or hunger first.
Aethelhild had told her that Hilda was a big-hearted woman who protected the nuns in her charge like a she-wolf. Aelfwyn did not dwell on what would happen to her if Hilda did not welcome her at Streonshalh. She felt broken—a husk. Part of her did not care what the future held.
Her only hope was that she would never again set eyes on the King of Northumbria.
Leofric was the first of the order to spot the men crossing to the island from the mainland. They rode on sturdy ponies, two abreast, having waited for the tide to ebb so they could make the journey across the Pilgrims’ Way.
He had just finished his silent vigil at the prior’s side and was trying to ease the cramps in his limbs. The bell for the noon meal was just moments from ringing, but to stretch his stiff legs, Leofric had left the monastery and walked down the slope toward the shore.
As soon as he saw the men, Leofric turned and jogged back up the incline to warn his brothers. These were the first visitors to the isle since his arrival here, and even at a distance, he could see they were warriors, for their spears bristled like porcupine quills against the sky.
Prior Cuthbert went forth to greet the newcomers, with his flock of monks gathered close behind him. As a postulant, Leofric brought up the rear, next to Deorwine.
“Who are they?” one of the other postulants whispered, peering over the shoulder of the monk in front of him.
“One of them carries a Northumbrian standard,” Deorwine whispered back. “They’re the king’s men.”
Leofric watched the newcomers closely. The men reminded him of the swaggering warriors who filled Godwine of Eoforwic’s hall: renowned fighters, their arms gleaming with béagas—armrings—and clad in leather, mail, and iron.
The sort of men he had planned to join the ranks of before he ruined everything for himself.
Jealousy curdled his stomach at the sight of them. Godwine had ensured that Leofric could never serve one of the lords of the north. Once he left here, he would have to travel far to avoid the ealdorman’s wrath.
The band of men rode up the path toward the monastery, leather creaking and bits jangling. They halted a few yards from where Cuthbert stood. One of the warriors, a big man clad in a mail vest, swung down from his horse and crossed to the prior. He then knelt before him and kissed his hand.
“Father, forgive the intrusion on your solitude,” he rumbled, his rough voice and appearance at odds with the gentleness of his actions. Leofric raised his eyebrows; this man might have looked like a fierce pagan warrior, but he clearly followed Cuthbert’s God.
“There’s nothing to be forgiven, Boden,” the prior replied with a gentle smile. “Tell me, what brings Ecgfrith’s men across the perilous sands?”
The warrior rose to his feet. “We search for a girl—the queen’s handmaid.
She disappeared from the Great Tower yesterday morning and has not been seen since.
” The warrior’s gaze left Cuthbert’s face, traveling over the monks assembled behind him.
“She is small and fair with pale blonde hair. Her name is Aelfwyn. Have any of you seen her?”
Leofric’s pulse quickened at the warrior’s words. He felt Deorwine shift nervously beside him. Although Leofric did not look his way, he bit down on the urge to kick his friend in the shin. He could sense Deorwine’s struggle not to answer the king’s man.
Keep your mouth shut.
Mercifully, Deorwine did just that. The crowd jostled in front of them as the other monks cast looks at each other and shrugged their shoulders. A chorus of ‘no’ drifted back to the waiting warriors.
“It appears none of us have seen this young woman,” Cuthbert said eventually. “Why do you believe she would come here?”
“We found her cloak and boots washed up on the shore in front of Bebbanburg,” Boden replied, “and thought she may have tried to cross to the isle.”
The prior shook his head, genuine concern darkening his gaze. “If she attempted such a journey on a rising tide, she would have been swept out to sea.”
“That is also my thought.”
Silence stretched between them before Boden turned and crossed back to his horse.
“If you see the girl—bring her back to Bebbanburg,” he said. His voice hardened, as did his gaze. “She might not be of right mind. The king wants her returned safely.”
Cuthbert nodded. “You have our word.”
Aelfwyn stared up at Leofric and Deorwine, fear coiling hard knots in her belly.
“I knew they’d come,” she whispered. “I knew they’d start looking for me.”
Leofric knelt down so his gaze was level with hers. His eyes—hazel-green and fringed by auburn lashes—fixed her coolly.
“They said you are handmaid to the queen. Is that so?”
Aelfwyn nodded, her pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.
“They also said you were ‘not of your right mind’—what did they mean?”
Terror rose up within Aelfwyn; she felt like a cornered hare with nowhere left to run, nowhere left to hide. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she gasped. “Don’t make me … I just can’t.”
“Be gentle, Leofric,” Deorwine said, his sensitive face creased with concern.
He hunkered down next to Aelfwyn and reached out a hand to comfort her.
His gaze widened in alarm when she shrank back from his touch.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, withdrawing his hand.
“It’s just that we can see you’ve been through a lot, and we just want to help. ”
Aelfwyn nodded. She wanted to believe him, but after what Ecgfrith had done, she did not think she would ever trust another man again. “I must go,” she finally managed. “I have to leave here … now.”
“Not so hasty,” Leofric spoke up, his tone firm. “It’s the middle of the day, and the tide is high. You wouldn’t get five yards before someone spotted you, and after that, you’d have nowhere to run.”
Tears blurred Aelfwyn’s vision. She scrambled to her feet, heart pounding. “I can’t go back there … I can’t.”
“Aelfwyn,” Leofric’s voice, calm and sure, drew her out of her panic. “Look at me.”
She did. He was standing close to her and was a lot taller than she was. Aelfwyn had to crane her neck up to meet his eye. He smelled nice, the faintest whiff of lye soap mixed with a spicy masculine smell. It was a comforting scent, and her pulse slowed slightly.
“Don’t worry,” he said, his mouth curving into that cocky half-smile she had seen the day before. “We’ll help you get off this isle. The tide recedes at dusk. Wait till then, and I’ll escort you back to the mainland myself.”