Chapter Four
Farewell
Dawn rose over Bebbanburg—a grey, foggy sunrise. Mist curled around the base of the Great Tower as Bridei stood next to the trough and splashed icy water over his face. The air smelt rich with the brine scent of the sea and the aroma of damp earth.
Excitement fluttered up under Bridei’s ribs as he breathed in the crisp, salty air.
Finally … I’m leaving.
The wounds on his back still hurt, although after Lewren’s healing the pain had subsided to a dull throb.
Bridei was alone; no one had risen early to see him off.
Ecgfrith had made it clear that when he rose from his alcove he expected to see his ward gone—and for once, Bridei was happy to obey him.
Still, after all these years, it felt odd—and more than a little hollow—to leave so quietly.
He had lived longer here than he ever had at Dundurn.
He had not spoken the tongue of his people in years.
The language of Pictland was far different to the guttural tongue of the Angles and the Saxons: Englisc.
He would be rusty, but not only that, he had gotten used to the Angle ways.
Even though he gritted his teeth through prayers before supper each night—a ritual which as a member of the highborn he could not escape—it was now part of his life.
It had taken him a long while to grow accustomed to Bebbanburg, but he realized his return to Dundurn would be just as strange.
Deep in thought, Bridei re-entered the stables and walked to the stall where his stocky, grey mare Léoma—Ray of Light—stood waiting.
Léoma had been a gift upon his thirteenth spring, from the king himself to celebrate Bridei’s passing into manhood.
The other young warriors received stallions, or at the very least geldings, but Ecgfrith had made a point out of gifting Bridei a filly.
The other warriors had teased him mercilessly over it, but Bridei had paid them no mind.
Three years on, and Léoma and he were a partnership.
The horse was one of the few close friends he had here.
“There you are.”
A young male voice, rough with sleep, greeted Bridei. He turned to see Heolstor stride into the low-slung building. His red hair tousled, and his face pinched and tired, Heolstor was dressed in leather breeches, a long woolen tunic, and a traveling cloak—and he carried a leather pack under one arm.
Bridei frowned. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m coming with you.”
Bridei snorted, although he was touched by his friend’s loyalty. “You can’t—Ecgfrith won’t like it.”
“He hasn’t forbidden anyone from joining you.”
Bridei raised an eyebrow. “And your mother’s going to let you?”
Heolstor strode over to where his gelding waited in the stall opposite. He picked up the saddle from its rack and slung it over his horse’s back. “She doesn’t know. Anyway, I’m old enough to choose my own path.”
Bridei watched his friend, incredulous. He had known Heolstor a long while and had always believed his friend, although loyal, to be the sort who would never go against his parents or his king’s will.
Still, he felt he had to make Heolstor see sense. He could be loyal to a fault. “You’ll make an enemy of Ecgfrith for life if you join me.”
Heolstor met Bridei’s gaze over his horse’s withers. His expression belonged to someone much older, as if he had spent most of the night pondering his decision. Bridei could see the tension in his face. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
“But you don’t know what Pictland is like, you might hate it …”
Heolstor shrugged, turning his attention back to the girth he was tightening. “I’m sure folk won’t be that different to here.”
“Many folk will never have seen someone who looks like you before,” Bridei replied. He had to be sure Heolstor knew what he was getting himself into. “They’ll stare like you’ve got three heads.”
Heolstor merely laughed. “And you’ll tell them to mind their manners.”
Their gazes met once more, and Bridei grinned. Heolstor was the only one he trusted enough in this fort to let his guard down with. For the first time, he let his excitement at Ecgfrith’s decision show on his face.
Heolstor grinned back. “Come on—let’s get moving.”
Bridei stepped into Léoma’s stall, greeting her by sliding a hand down her neck.
She was undergoing her spring molt, and fine, grey hairs came away in a great handful, causing Bridei to cough.
There was no time to groom her properly this morning though.
Bridei needed to be well away from the fort by the time the king rose from his furs.
As he tightened the girth to Léoma’s saddle, Bridei cast another glance at his friend.
Heolstor had finished saddling his gelding and was leading it out of the stall. He carried a light, iron sword at his side and a seax—a long fighting dagger—sheathed across his stomach, Angle and Saxon style.
Heolstor tied the pack he had brought behind the saddle. “I’ve packed us some food,” he announced. “It’s not much—just bread, cheese, and some salted pork—but we can hunt on the way.”
Bridei nodded. He too had packed some food, and had also brought his longbow and a quiver of arrows with him.
The young men led their horses out of the stables and mounted. Then they rode across the yard to the high gate. The guards flanking it, faceless behind iron helmets, watched wordlessly as the pair passed through the gate and clip-clopped away down the sleeping King’s Way toward the low gate.
Bridei inhaled the faint scent of wood smoke and baking bread. It was still early. The sun was rising over the sea to the east, a glow through the encircling mist—promising good weather for the first day of their journey north.
Halfway down the King’s Way, Bridei glanced back at Heolstor. The young man was staring ahead, his face more serious than Bridei had ever seen it. Although he was attempting to be brave, Bridei knew Heolstor was struggling with the consequences of his decision.
“There’s still time, you know,” Bridei said, keeping his voice low in the dawn hush. “You can change your mind.”
Heolstor looked at him, his blue eyes hardening. “You’re not leaving me behind.”
“But this is your place, these are your people.”
Heolstor’s jaw clenched before he glanced away. “My loyalty is to you.”
Bridei stared at him, momentarily lost for words.
His throat constricted, and he turned his attention back to where the King’s Way widened out into the market square ahead.
Heolstor was the closest thing he had to family in the fort.
He and his mother Geisla were the only folk who had welcomed him into the king’s hall.
Life here would have been cold and lonely without them.
Bridei cleared his throat. “It’s a long, hard ride north—are you ready for it?”
Heolstor’s answering smile lit up the misty morning like a Yuletide blaze. “I can’t wait.”
Bridei turned his attention back to the empty road ahead. “What shall we tell the guards at the gate, if they ask? They’ll be expecting me to ride out alone.”
“Just say Ecgfrith has decided to rid himself of me too,” Heolstor replied. “A friend of an upstart Pictling is no friend of his.”
A small, cloaked figure awaited them in the market square.
Hea stood, clasping a threadbare, woolen cloak about her, watching the horsemen approach. Around her, the first farmers and merchants were setting up stalls for the morning’s trade. The low rumble of conversation drifted across the square toward the riders.
Heolstor let out a low groan upon spying Hea. “What’s she doing here?”
Bridei sighed. Likewise, he did not want to see Hea this morning. He hoped she would not make a fuss, or start weeping. He just wanted to leave quietly—and quickly.
He drew up Léoma next to Hea and looked down at her pale face. Her eyes gleamed in the dawn light.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said gently. “It just makes this harder.”
Her eyes glittered with tears and her chin trembled, but she did not start to weep. “I had to say goodbye,” she whispered. Her gaze flicked to Heolstor, who had drawn his gelding up next Bridei and was now shifting impatiently in the saddle. “To both of you.”
“Goodbye then.” Bridei smiled down at her. “Live well.”
She made a soft, choking sound, as if swallowing a sob, and nodded.
“Goodbye, imp,” Heolstor added with a half-smile, using the name he had bestowed upon her years earlier when he had found her a nuisance. “Look after yourself.”
With that, the two young men urged their horses forward and rode toward the low gate. Unlike the high gate above, which had been opened in preparation for Bridei’s departure, the heavy oaken and iron gates—the only entrance through the outer palisade—were still closed.
The guards here watched Bridei approach.
With a curt nod, one of them gestured to his companions to unbar and open the gates.
They observed Bridei curiously, their gazes flicking to Heolstor.
Bridei saw the interest on their faces, yet none of them moved to stop his companion, perhaps thinking the king had given permission for the Pictish lordling to travel with an escort.
“Good riddance,” one of them muttered as Bridei and Heolstor rode out of Bebbanburg and down the steep causeway beyond.
Hea stood in the midst of the market square, oblivious to the stall-holders setting up for the day around her.
Instead, she stared after the two young men on horseback as they rode through the low gate: one tall and lean, with hair the color of a raven’s wing; the other stocky with pale skin and a shock of red hair.
She could not believe Bridei and Heolstor were leaving—that they would never come back.
Hea remained there for a while, staring after them, even once they had disappeared onto the causeway that led down to the farmland below.
A man carrying a sack of barley jostled her as he passed by, jolting Hea from her reverie.
Barely noting the grunt of apology he gave her, she turned and woodenly walked from the square.
The Dragon’s Back was quiet at this time of morning: just a few early-risers hurrying off to get choice items from market, before the rest of the fort descended upon it.
Hea paid none of them any mind.
This is all my fault.
Bridei would still have been here if he had not broken Rinan’s nose. An ache took up residence in Hea’s chest, and by the time she reached her mother’s hovel, tears were streaming down her face.
Bridei had been the only boy she had ever taken an interest in, and her misery now was so great that she felt as if he would surely be the last. She felt as if a great mailed fist were squeezing her heart.
Hea burst in through the wattle door, rushed past where her mother was kneading bread on a table to the right of the fire pit, and threw herself onto the pile of furs at the back of the space.
“It’s not fair,” she wailed.
Then she began to sob as if her heart would break.
Lewren had not spoken at the sight of her daughter’s abrupt, tearful entrance. However, she knew the reason for it.
With a sigh, she dusted off her floury hands and crossed the space to where Hea lay face-down in the furs. Her daughter’s shoulders shook violently, and although her sobs were muffled, Lewren heard the raw pain.
Pity twisted in her breast, and she lay a hand on Hea’s back, gently stroking her.
For a while she just let her weep, for there was little she could say to change things.
She had known that Hea had developed an infatuation for the handsome, young Pict, and had also noted that he did not return the sentiment.
It’s for the best, she thought. There’s little point pining after someone who does not want you in return.
Bridei mac Beli was the son of a Pictish king, and his destiny lay far from here. It was better that the bond between him and Hea was severed now. Her daughter was young enough to recover, to forget about him in time.
Lewren tensed as fragments of her own life intruded; if only she could forget her own past. She knew how such loss felt—the aching, the longing, for a man who would never love you. The rage, the bitterness that filled you afterward. A cruel companion over the years.
Lewren exhaled slowly, forcing back memories best kept buried. Instead, she continued to stroke her daughter’s heaving back.
“Hush, Hea,” she murmured finally. “Bridei never belonged at Bebbanburg. You must let him go.”
Her daughter continued to sob, giving no sign that she had even heard her.