Chapter Five
The Seer of Bebbanburg
Bebbanburg, Kingdom of Northumbria, Britannia
The young woman with wild, red hair walked down to the water’s edge and cast a posy of violets into the churning sea.
It was a chill, overcast morning and the great North Sea was the color of weather-beaten iron.
The wind buffeted the solitary figure upon the sandy shore, tugging at her woolen cloak and whipping her curls into her eyes.
Hea paid it no mind; her gaze was upon the bright posy that now lay adrift upon the waves.
Violets had been her mother’s favorite flower—they would forever remind Hea of her.
Hea’s eyes filled with tears, blurring her vision.
A year had passed since her mother’s death, but the ache of loss in her heart did not ease.
Lewren had been ill for many moons before the sickness that made her waste away to a skeleton finally took her.
Hea and Lewren had tried everything to heal her, every herb and potion in their healer’s lore, but none of it had helped.
Even now, Lewren’s last words on her deathbed still echoed in Hea’s ears. Her mother had been so weak it was an effort to speak. She had lain back on the nest of furs that Hea propped under her shoulders, her once vibrant mane dull in the flickering light of the cresset on the wall above her.
Her hand, fragile and ice-cold, had gripped Hea’s with surprising strength.
“Daughter,” she rasped. “Don’t follow my path. It will only bring you pain.”
Hea had gazed down at Lewren, confused by her words. “Mōder? What do you mean?” she whispered, her chest aching at the sight of her mother so weak, so ill. The rail-thin ghost before her bore no resemblance to the woman who had always been her protector, her teacher.
“I’ve always been prideful,” Lewren gasped the words, each one a terrible effort.
“Too much so.” She paused there, gathering her waning strength before continuing.
“I loved your father, but he dismissed me for I was beneath him. I hated him for it, and the bitterness grew within me with each passing year. Now that hate is killing me.”
“No, mōder,” Hea had whispered, tears leaking from her burning eyes. “You’ll get better—you just need to fight it.”
“It’s too late for me now, but you must heed my words.
” Her mother squeezed her hand so tightly that Hea’s finger bones creaked.
It hurt, but she did not pull her hand free.
“Don’t be a fool like your mother. Find yourself a good man, and make a family together.
Sell flowers, heal folk, but cast aside your gift of sight.
The old ways are disappearing; if you practice them, folk will turn against you.
They’ll call you a wicce, and shun you.”
Hea had stared down at her mother. This was a shock. Lewren had always encouraged her to use her gift, to nurture it. Now she was telling her to cast it aside. Hea had not understood.
A year later, she still did not.
Turning away from the foaming waves, which had now dragged the posy of violets under, Hea walked across the broad strand of silver sand, climbed the reed-covered dunes, and walked toward the causeway.
Bebbanburg rose above her, a bristling silhouette of wooden and iron ramparts with tall guard towers at each corner. The fort spread across the length and breadth of the massive outcrop of stone that rose above the surrounding farmland and looked out to sea.
Hea climbed the causeway, passing through the low gate. She felt the appraising gazes of the guards as she did so—their hot, lustful looks. Yet they did not utter a word. None of them dared.
In a year, much had changed for Heahburh, daughter of Lewren.
For a while after her mother’s death, she had lived quietly, doing as Lewren had bid: selling flowers and using her skills as a healer.
However, contrary to her mother’s advice, she had shunned male attention.
She did not want any of the warriors who leered at her, or the farmers who flirted with her at market.
They were rough, rude, and charmless, and she would not give herself to any of them.
Her mother had told her to find a good man, and she would wait until she did.
Then, six moons after Lewren’s passing, in the midst of a chill spring, King Ecgfrith had sent for her.
For the first time, she had set foot inside the Great Tower of Bebbanburg, and knelt before the high seat—before the hazel-eyed king and his pale queen.
“I hear you bear a gift,” Ecgfrith had said, his gaze intense as he studied her. “The gift of foresight.”
Hea had met his gaze, her heart fluttering in her breast. Was this a trap? She knew the king was pious, although not as much as his wife, or his late mother. Was he looking to root out and get rid of those following the old ways?”
She had inhaled deeply and prepared to lie.
“I have need of a seer,” the king said quietly. “Can you help me?”
Hea swallowed and tried not to look shocked. Her gaze flicked to Queen Irmenburgh seated beside Ecgfrith. She had seen the queen often over the years, and always thought she had looked kind. Yet that morning her pretty face was stony, her blue eyes narrowed; her thin frame taut with displeasure.
Clearly, the king had not discussed this with his wife—or if he had, she had not given her approval.
“My mother had great talent as a seer,” Hea had replied, dropping her gaze to the rushes at her feet. “I’m not sure I’m her equal.”
She had glanced up to see the king was smiling. “A gift is a gift,” he said. “If you have it, you are of use to me.”
And that was that—overnight, Hea’s life at Bebbanburg changed. Gone were the leering looks and straying hands of men in the fort; gone were her fears that she would go hungry over the winter.
The king paid her a small leather purse of gold thrymsas once a moon, a small fortune to Hea.
In return, Hea sought answers for Ecgfrith; although sometimes the spirit world gave her confusing and worrying messages. The king was greedy for answers, and the shadowlands did not like the living interfering with them; Hea had to tread carefully.
Hea crossed the market square.
As she walked, she noted how some of the women here gave her wary looks. One or two even whispered together as they watched her, their expressions guarded. Her mother was right—even with the king’s protection, a seer was part of the old, dying, ways.
Halfway across the square, Hea heard her name called. She glanced up to see Fritha, the baker’s wife who sold fresh bread, cakes, and pies at market every morning.
“You look pale this morn, lass,” Fritha greeted Hea with a motherly smile as she approached her stall. “Does something ail you?”
Hea shook her head. “Mōder died a year ago today. The memory makes me melancholy, that’s all.”
Fritha’s kindly face grew serious. The baker’s wife had grown up with Lewren, and had been one of her closest friends. “Woden strike me down, I’d forgotten. Is it a year already?”
Hea attempted a smile and failed, she felt oddly tearful and empty today. “I know,” she replied huskily. “It feels like only yesterday to me.”
Fritha emerged from behind a mountain of bread and cakes and put an arm around Hea’s shoulders. “I know it doesn’t seem so now, but you will feel better with time.”
Hea nodded, letting out a long shuddering breath. Fritha had known loss too; both her daughters had died in infancy, leaving Fritha and her husband childless.
“Here.” Fritha ducked back behind her stall and retrieved a loaf of bread. “Get yourself home and have something warm to eat.”
Hea’s mouth quirked. Fritha, a portly woman with florid cheeks, thought a good meal healed most ills. However, Hea had already broken her fast before going down to the shore and was not hungry. Even so, she took the bread gratefully; Fritha’s baking was the best in the fort.
She was just about to bid her friend good day and continue on her way across the market square toward the Dragon’s Back, when a clamor behind her made Hea turn.
The pounding of hooves up the causeway beyond the low gate.
As the women watched, a company of horsemen rode into Bebbanburg.
Hea instantly realized they were not the king’s men, nor were they Angles or Saxons.
Instead, these men wore breeches of plaid.
Some were bare-chested, while others wore leather vests, leaving their muscular arms, painted in swirling blue designs, bare.
Their hair, mostly long and dark, flowed down their backs.
They carried iron swords and square shields covered in leather and painted in tribal designs.
Around their shoulders, many of the warriors wore plaid cloaks, rather than fur mantles.
Hea’s belly contracted. Picts.
This was the first time she had seen a company of warriors visit Bebbanburg from the wildlands to the north—lands that Ecgfrith of Northumbria ruled.
She had not seen a Pict in a long while, not since her beloved Bridei departed.
Here in Bebbanburg, he had stood out amongst the blond, brown, and red-haired men.
Yet this was a company of tall, lean warriors with raven-black hair and sharp features.
It brought back memories of the longing that Hea had long buried.
Then she saw him.
He rode at the head of a company of around thirty warriors, back ramrod straight, shoulders thrown back in supreme male confidence. Years had passed, but Hea would have known him anywhere.
She stopped breathing.
At sixteen winters, Bridei mac Beli had been striking.
At nearly twenty-four, he was devastating.
He was still lean, but his frame had filled out with muscle and his shoulders had broadened.
He wore his hair shorter than some of the others so that it curled around the top of his shoulders.
His expression was cool, arrogant. More than that, he carried himself like a man; gone was any gaucheness of youth.
Heolstor rode at his side. Like Bridei, the red-haired lad Hea remembered had transformed into a broad, fire-haired warrior. Swirling blue designs decorated the right side of Heolstor’s face, adding to his forbidding presence.
Neither man saw her.
The Picts thundered through the square, sending townsfolk, dogs, and fowl scattering, and entered the King’s Way. Hea watched them go, her heart pounding.
“What are Picts doing here?”
Hea heard the fear in Fritha’s voice and tore her gaze away from the horsemen, who were heading toward the high gate. “Worry not,” she said with a soothing smile. “Ecgfrith still rules southern Pictland, does he not?”
Fritha grunted, her gaze still on where the last of the Pict warriors disappeared up the King’s Way. “Aye, but why should any of them need to come here?”
“Perhaps to pay tribute?”
Fritha looked unconvinced. “More likely to cause trouble, I’d wager.”