Chapter Thirty-eight Meetings
Chapter Thirty-eight
Meetings
IT WAS A cold, blustery morning as Hrothwyn, daughter of Godwine, made her way down the steps of the Great Hall. Pulling her fur cloak about her and blinking at the stinging wind, the young woman’s gaze swept across the wide space before her.
On the east side of the square, farmers and merchants had set up their stalls for the morning’s market.
Women carrying wicker baskets wove their way through the busy stalls, picking up their provisions for the noon meal.
Just a few yards away, in the center of the square, Hrothwyn spied two crouched figures, their heads and wrists trapped in a heavy wooden stockade.
Some folk had not come to the square to buy food. A group of lads were out already, circling the lovers like starving dogs. Their taunts and curses reached her, and Hrothwyn clenched her jaw at the vile words.
Enough.
“Lady Hrothwyn,” one of her father’s spearmen greeted her at the bottom of the steps. “Where are you going?”
“I wish to speak with the prisoners,” she informed him, quietly but firmly.
“I don’t think your father would be pleased by that.”
“My father has given me permission,” she lied. Fortunately, Godwine had just departed Eoforwic with the king and a company of warriors for their spring hunt. This spearman would not be able to check with her father until his return.
The man appeared to hesitate, indecision on his face. “Very well,” he muttered. “Just don’t get too close to either of them.”
Hrothwyn gave him a jaundiced look. “They’re in the stocks,” she reminded him coolly, “and hardly a danger to me.”
Not awaiting his response, the young woman squared her shoulders, gathered her courage, and strode out across the square.
Leofric was dozing, lost in a fog of discomfort and exhaustion, when a shadow fell over him. He blinked and looked up to see a short, plump young woman with a round freckled face and wiry brown hair gazing down at him.
“Hrothwyn,” he croaked, surprised to see her. He imagined she had come to spit on him, to vilify him like the rest of the folk here. Despite that he knew it was her right—far more than the scavengers that were now trailing into the market square—his heart sank. He did not want Aelfwyn to see this.
“I have not come to insult you,” she told him eventually as if reading his mind.
Leofric cringed inside at these words. They were a stark reminder of how he had wounded her months earlier.
“Look, Hrothwyn, I truly am sorry for what I said,” he croaked. His throat was parched, and it hurt to speak, but he had to make her understand.
“You’ve already apologized,” she reminded him, “and I believe that you are truly remorseful.”
He looked up into her earnest, solemn face and felt something twist in his chest. Now he was really starting to feel like a turd. “Then why are you here?”
“Because I wanted you to know that I bear you no ill-will—that I wish there was a way I could help you and Aelfwyn.” Hrothwyn’s gaze flicked to where Aelfwyn silently listened to their conversation, and Hrothwyn gave her a sad smile. “Neither of you deserve this fate.”
She then glanced back at Leofric, her smile fading. “I know I’m not comely, my father has told me often enough. Your words didn’t come as a shock—I was more afraid that my father would punish me for being unmarriageable.”
Leofric held her gaze. “Did he?”
She nodded. “He has found me a husband, a man three times my age who has already buried three wives. He wants a woman to breed him sons—he doesn’t care how fair my face is.”
Leofric almost flinched at the baldness of her words. There was no self-pity, only cold fact. Hrothwyn accepted her fate, even if it was a cruel one.
Hrothwyn favored him with a sad, self-effacing smile, reached up, and placed her hand over the wooden crucifix she wore about her neck. “I will pray for you both.”
Aethelhild stood back from the stockade, observing as Godwine’s daughter spoke quietly to Leofric. Aelfwyn, her pretty face splattered with dried filth, listened to their conversation, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears.
Aethelhild did not want to interrupt Hrothwyn—for she could see it had taken a lot for the young woman to come outdoors to speak to Leofric.
A few lads, buckets full of fresh slops, hovered nearby.
Recognizing the ealdorman’s daughter, and then the queen, they kept their distance for the moment.
Yet Aethelhild knew that the moment she and Hrothwyn departed, they would resume their campaign.
Hrothwyn finished speaking to Leofric and stepped away from him. Aethelhild watched her turn away, before Hrothwyn then made her way back across the square toward the Great Hall.
The boys hovering at the edge of the square made to close in. Aethelhild threw them a venomous look, causing them to shrink back once more, and strode over to the stocks. Aelfwyn saw her coming, her grey-blue eyes widening in surprise.
“Milady,” Aelfwyn greeted her huskily, her gaze fixing upon the queen’s bruised left eye. Aethelhild knew she was not a pretty sight this morning. Her eye had swollen shut and ached steadily.
“Morning, Aelfwyn.” Aethelhild glanced over at Leofric who was also watching her, his handsome face taut with fatigue and despair.
“The king will not want you speaking to me.” Aelfwyn’s quietly spoken words brought Aethelhild’s attention back to her.
The queen smiled. “I care not what the king wants—besides, he’s not here to stop me.”
Aethelhild then casually glanced around her. There were a number of spearmen guarding the square, but they were all out of earshot.
Good.
The queen took a step closer, trying to ignore the stench of the excrement and rotting food that covered both the prisoners and the stocks. It was strong enough to make her eyes water.
“This is a crime against everything I believe in,” Aethelhild began, her voice low and steady, “and I’ll not sit by and let those men take your lives.”
Aelfwyn stared at her, momentarily struck speechless. When she finally found her tongue, the young woman’s voice was hushed. “There’s nothing you can do, milady. Please don’t put your own safety at risk for us—it’s too dangerous.”
Aethelhild smiled. “I’ve decided that some things are worth risking. I’m not just doing this for you, but for myself. I cannot stay with Ecgfrith.”
“He did that to you,” Leofric observed, his gaze upon her blackened eye, “didn’t he?”
Aethelhild nodded. “And he will do worse for I can no longer keep quiet.”
“But how can you possibly—” Aelfwyn began, her gaze wide and panicked.
“Let me worry about that,” Aethelhild cut her off. She knew it must seem hopeless; she was one woman with only the bishop as her ally. How could she free Aelfwyn and Leofric, and escape Eoforwic?
Aethelhild looked toward the busy market, just yards away.
There, her gaze rested upon a red-haired woman wearing a woolen cloak.
Aethelhild had spied the woman earlier, while Hrothwyn was speaking to Leofric.
She had come to the square bearing a basket.
Yet her gaze was not on the piles of spring greens, turnips, and onions, but on Leofric.
Cynhild of Driffield had come here to see her son. Aethelhild saw the anguish on the older woman’s face, the fury in her gaze, and knew she had found an ally.
She glanced back at where Leofric and Aelfwyn watched her steadily.
“Leave the details to me,” she said quietly. “Just be ready when the time comes.”
Cynhild walked through the narrow streets of Eoforwic, her heart pounding. It was starting to rain; large wet drops hit her face, but she barely noticed them.
Before setting out on the hunt with the ealdorman and king, her husband had expressly forbidden her from going to the stocks, from seeing their son.
Usually, she obeyed him in all things—Wibert had taken his fists to her more than once when she had defied him—yet this time she had not done his bidding.
The sight of Leofric, trapped and splattered in filth, had nearly broken her heart.
My boy.
She had never gotten the chance to say goodbye all those months ago. One moment Leofric had been part of their lives, the next he was gone, and Wibert forbade any of the family from mentioning his name.
Although she had always promised herself that she would never single out any of her children for special treatment, Leofric had been her favorite.
Perhaps it was because he was the youngest of her brood or maybe it was his sunny, cheeky nature as a child.
His older brothers had taken after their father—rough, hard men with bad tempers—whereas Leofric had a kind soul.
Growing up, he had been forced to develop a tough skin to survive in their family, and inch by inch, she had lost her boy to a cocky, selfish young man who lived only to satisfy his own wants. Still, she had sometimes caught glimpses of the man underneath, the man he could be.
She had watched him stand before the ealdorman and the king, listened to him speak to them, and her heart had swollen with pride. Then when his lover had burst in and pleaded for his life, her heart had broken.
She did not know what had befallen him over the past year, but she could see he had changed.
Earlier, Cynhild had watched Queen Aethelhild approach Leofric and Aelfwyn and speak to them quietly.
It was a curious sight, to see such a beautiful lady clothed in flowing blue, glide across the filthy square to the stocks.
Watching them, Cynhild could see they were speaking of something important—she wished she was closer so she could overhear them.
Then the queen had glanced up, her penetrating gaze snaring Cynhild’s.
Frozen to the spot Cynhild had watched Lady Aethelhild bid the lovers good day before she strode toward her.
“Milady.” Cynhild had hurriedly curtsied as the queen approached, mortified that she had been caught staring.
“You are Cynhild, wife of Wibert, are you not?” Aethelhild had asked.
“Aye.”