Chapter Thirty-nine
Night Falls over Eoforwic
AETHELHILD FELT SICK with nerves by the time dusk settled over rainy Eoforwic.
Likewise, Bishop Wilfrid appeared pale and drawn. His tall, rawboned frame quivered with impatience as he paced the rush-strewn floor in the king and queen’s alcove. Watching him made Aethelhild feel even more on edge, although she knew he was trying to steady himself for what was to come.
“Are you sure everything is in order?” he asked.
Aethelhild nodded. It was like playing a game of Cyningtaefl: all the pieces were set upon the board—all that remained was to start moving them.
“Cynhild and Halwend both know the part they must play,” she replied quietly, keeping her voice low.
They were alone in the alcove, but she didn’t want to risk being overheard, not when she was this close to freedom.
“My men are readying the horses as we speak.”
Wilfrid stopped pacing and faced her. His face was stern, but his eyes were gentle. After Aelfwyn’s disappearance, she had increasingly relied on the bishop for companionship. Wilfrid was a good listener, and his gruff manner hid a kind heart. He had made life at Bebbanburg bearable.
“Can you trust those two?” he asked. “What if they betray us?”
Aethelhild held his gaze. “We have to believe they won’t. They both stand to gain something from aiding us.”
The bishop watched her for a few moments before his mouth curved into a rare smile. “You were wasted as a woman, Aethelhild—you would have made a great man, a leader of armies.”
Aethelhild gave a soft laugh before shaking her head.
She knew he meant it as a compliment, but the comment stung.
“I know a woman’s lot isn’t an easy one—but I’m glad I wasn’t born a man.
” She met his gaze squarely then. “I intend to make up for lost time once we leave here—to make my life a worthy one.”
Aelfwyn sagged against the wooden stockade, barely conscious.
Night was falling—the grey of a rainy day merging into a shadowy twilight.
The square inside the high gate had emptied out now, their tormentors having grown tired of sloshing around in the mud while the rain pelted down.
The smell of cook fires, the roasting of mutton, and the aroma of baking pies caused her belly to ache with hunger.
Time had lost any meaning for Aelfwyn. The days she had spent trapped inside these wooden jaws had blurred into one long nightmare. She and Leofric had long since stopped talking, each of them retreating into caves inside their minds, a place of refuge where the misery had not yet touched.
Soon the end would come. Aelfwyn tried not to dwell on what awaited them. An axe blade to the neck would be a clean death at least—provided the ealdorman sharpened the blade first.
Tears of despair stung Aelfwyn’s closed eyelids. The past few months had taught her so much—but she had only just begun to live. Leofric had brought such joy into her life and soon Godwine of Eoforwic would take him from her before ending her own life.
Aelfwyn swallowed. Her throat was dry.
The warrior, Halwend, had visited them earlier.
He had scooped ladles of water out of a pail and held it up for them to drink before feeding them both pottage and bread in turn.
Aelfwyn had been surprised the warrior had taken this task on; surely this was a role for one of the women.
She had been too hungry and thirsty to question him.
Leofric had also said little as he ate and drank, and Halwend was likewise taciturn. It was only when the warrior rose to leave, picking up the empty wooden platter and pail as he did so, that he spoke.
“I’ll be back at dusk with some hot broth—you both need to keep up your strength.”
Strength. Aelfwyn felt as weak as a newborn lamb. Aethelhild’s mysterious visit had made her believe that help was coming, but with the passing of time, that fragile hope ebbed away.
The splash of heavy footfalls behind them now alerted Aelfwyn to someone’s arrival. A moment later, as he had promised, Halwend appeared with an iron pot of steaming broth in one hand and a smoking pitch torch in the other.
He hunkered down in front of Leofric, meeting his eye. “Bearing up?”
Leofric snorted. “Aye—just enjoying the rain.”
Halwend grinned. “At least you smell better for it.”
He filled a ladle with broth and lifted it to Leofric’s lips. “Drink up, lad.”
Leofric did as bid, although his gaze remained upon the warrior. “Why all the concern,” he asked finally. “You’re fussing over me like a nursemaid.”
Halwend’s grin widened. “Your mother made me promise to look after you.” He fed Leofric another two ladles of broth before shifting across to Aelfwyn.
As she sipped at the rich rabbit gruel, Aelfwyn noticed that Halwend’s gaze was shifting around the empty square.
He was taking careful note of his surroundings.
Her stomach twisted; the ealdorman had done well leaving Halwend in charge of them in his absence. The warrior missed nothing.
Aethelhild will never be able to free us with this man watching over us.
Halwend finished feeding her and rose to his feet. He stared down at them, his expression turning serious. “Ready yourselves,” he said quietly. “The time is coming.”
Without another word he left them, his heavy tread squelching across the mud back to the hall. Once Halwend was out of earshot, Leofric gave a low chuckle.
“I don’t believe it—the old dog has turned on its master.”
Renewed hope flickered in Aelfwyn’s breast. “He’ll help us?”
The gleam of Leofric’s grin was white in the gathering dark. “It looks that way.”
Aelfwyn tentatively tried to shift her weight. She had been kneeling in the mud for so long she felt welded to the earth. The pain in her limbs when she tried to move them nearly made her cry out. Hissing between her teeth, she persisted, stretching out one leg behind her and then the other.
Next to her, she heard Leofric stifle a groan as he did the same. “Devil’s turds,” he muttered. “I’m a cripple.”
Aelfwyn gritted her teeth and tried rotating her ankles, one at a time. The numbness was fading, only to be replaced with agonizing pins and needles. “I don’t think I can walk,” she gasped.
The pain was just beginning to fade when she heard the first signs of something happening on the perimeters of the square.
The rain was hammering down now. The storm hung directly overhead.
Thunder boomed and then moments later lightning flashed, illuminating the night in eerie silver.
Aelfwyn raised her head, blinking water out of her eyes, and caught a glimpse of two men wrestling against the high gate.
A seax blade flashed, and one of the figures crumpled into the mud.
Lightning lit up the square once more, and she saw cloaked figures moving around the edge of the inner palisade. Then darkness blanketed the square once more, and through the hiss of rain, she caught the dull thud of fists against flesh and the scrape of iron against wet leather.
“It’s starting,” Leofric said quietly. “Are you ready, min heorte?”
Min heorte—my heart. The endearment made Aelfwyn’s throat constrict. Would she have the chance to touch him, to hold him once more? Hope hung by a thread, a fragile flame flickering in the darkness. One cold breath, and it would go out.
An instant later, she heard the splashes of running feet crossing the square behind them. Cloaked figures appeared on either side of the stocks. Aelfwyn heard the grating of iron as the locks sheared off, and the creak of hinges when the top half of the stocks came away.
Aelfwyn almost wept with relief—she was free.
“Come.” A woman’s voice sounded in Aelfwyn’s ear. “We need to move—now.”
Aethelhild.
It took two of them to help Aelfwyn to her feet, and she cried out in pain when she tried to straighten her legs and bear weight upon them.
“You can manage it.” A man spoke gruffly next to her. Aelfwyn recognized his voice—Bishop Wilfrid.
Next to her two warriors had lifted Leofric out of the stocks. He looped his arms over their shoulders, letting them support him as they headed across the square.
“We must follow.” Aethelhild’s voice was hard with urgency. “There’s no time to waste.”
Aelfwyn stumbled her way out of the market square, grateful that Aethelhild and Wilfrid were there to help her. A sheet of lightning illuminated the sky above them, and she caught a glimpse of her friend and the bishop. They were both wearing thick, hooded traveling cloaks.
They followed Leofric and the two warriors under the high gate and down the hill to where a group of cloaked figures on horseback stood waiting. A cluster of riderless horses, all saddled and ready to go, stood on the edge of the group.
The rain was coming down in great sheets, causing a roar as it gushed down the street in rivers, turning the dirt into a sea of mud.
Although visibility was poor, the foul weather proved to be their ally this evening.
The folk of Eoforwic huddled inside around their firepits, and the streets were deserted.
There would be no one, save the guards at the low gate, to witness their escape.
“Mount up,” a man commanded. Aelfwyn recognized Halwend’s voice.
With Aethelhild and Wilfrid’s help, she scrambled up onto the back of a stocky bay pony with a large white star across its forehead. Next to her, Leofric managed to mount a large bay gelding unassisted—Aelfwyn’s heart leaped when she realized it was Windraes.
Moments later, all the company—around twenty of them—were mounted.
Halwend led the way down the hill to the low gate.
He rode a massive dun stallion and was the only one of the company who had not pulled up his hood.
The drumming rain plastered his hair to his scalp; his strong-featured face was set in harsh, determined lines.
Aelfwyn followed the others down to the gate. Her mind was a jumble—how had Aethelhild managed to organize this? Halwend was the ealdorman’s most trusted warrior. Who were these other men who joined them?
At the low gate, Halwend and four others swung down from their horses and drew their swords.
They met the cluster of spearmen who formed a line against the heavy oak and iron gate that barred the way out of town.
The grunt of men fighting, followed by the clang of iron against iron and the meaty thud of blades slicing through flesh, rose above the hiss of the rain.
Surely someone will hear us.
Aelfwyn cast a glimpse over her shoulder at the street beyond, half-expecting to see a horde of enraged warriors thundering toward them. Yet the road was deserted.
Halwend cut down the last hapless spearman to face him before ordering some of his companions to drag the bodies out of the way. Then he and another of his companions unbarred the gate.
They rode out of Eoforwic into a squall of driving rain.
Blinded, Aelfwyn guided her pony across the bridge, over the turbid River Ouse. Many of the riders carried smoking pitch torches aloft, the only means they had of lighting the way. However, the rain was doing its best to extinguish them.
Grasping the slippery reins for dear life, her thighs aching already from gripping on, Aelfwyn found herself in the middle of the company.
The fear she might fall off and be trampled underfoot gave way to the thrill of freedom. Her heart pounded in time with the pony’s hoofbeats. Aelfwyn leaned forward and gave herself up to the moment. The company thundered on, sweeping her away into the night.