Chapter Sixteen Market Square
Chapter Sixteen
Market Square
Bebbanburg
Hea entered the market square, bunches of spring flowers in her arms. Their sweet scent tickled her nose as she wandered amongst the crowd.
“Daffodils, jonquils, snowdrops, and bluebells,” she called out, using the same sing-song voice her mother always had when she sold flowers.
These days, thanks to the monthly sum of gold that Ecgfrith paid her, she had little need to make a living by selling flowers.
However, she was wary of remaining dependent on the king.
Although he appeared to be pleased with her of late, she knew him to be a fickle man.
She had seen how he treated those who disappointed him and realized that it would take little for him to treat her the same way.
Not only that, but the little garden behind her hovel was a riot of color this time of year; it seemed a pity not to share that beauty with others.
Unfortunately, few folk seemed interested this morning.
“Spring flowers,” she called out. “All your favorites!”
Still nothing. A merchant brushed by Hea, his gaze looking through her. A few feet away, the woman who sold Hea cheese and butter every week avoided her eye.
Hea tensed. Are they ignoring me?
Her gaze traveled across the square, and she spied Oswald walking amongst the crowd. The priest was young, barely five winters older than her, and would have been considered attractive if not for that ridiculous tonsure. His bald pate gleamed in the spring sunlight.
Oswald had not seen her, so intent was he on greeting and conversing with the folk he passed. Hea watched him, frowning. People seemed to have time for the priest this morning, just not for her.
“Hea!” Fritha’s voice hailed her from a few feet away. “I’d love some snowdrops, if you have any left?”
Grateful, Hea turned to her friend—the only person who had greeted her so far this morning—and smiled. “Of course.”
She extracted a bunch of the delicate white bonnets on long green stems and handed them over.
“How much?” Fritha asked.
“For you, nothing.”
“Nonsense, lass. How about one of my apple cakes, to take home for your supper later?”
Hea sighed. “Very well.”
Fritha picked up one of the cakes and put it in a small cloth bag before passing it to Hea. “What’s wrong? Why the long face?”
“Nothing a little friendliness couldn’t cure,” Hea replied tightly. “I’m invisible today. No one will speak to me.”
Fritha’s ruddy face tightened at this news, and her gaze flicked to where Oswald was now laughing with a young couple.
He then reached out and ruffled their son’s hair.
“It’s that priest,” Fritha said. “I heard him preach a few days ago. He rants on and on about the devil, about how those who practice the old ways must be shunned. How we must all avoid temptation. He’s got folk all stirred up. ”
Hea spat an oath under her breath, still glaring at Oswald. “I wish he would leave us all in peace.”
Fritha gave a humorless laugh. “There’s not much likelihood of that. More men like him will come. Not all holy folk are like Prior Cuthbert.”
Feeling the weight of the two women’s stares, Oswald glanced up, his gaze meeting Hea’s.
His expression grew serious, and his face turned pink. Gone was the genial smile and the easy banter with the good folk of Bebbanburg. He backed up—his conversation with the young couple forgotten—turned and hurried away, shoulders rounded.
“That’s right, scurry off,” Hea muttered, her gaze still tracking him through the crowd. “Like the rat you are.”
Fritha gave a low whistle. “You don’t like him much, lass, do you?”
Hea sighed. “Not if he’s turning folk against me.”
“Don’t fret.” Fritha put a motherly hand on her arm. “You will always have friends here, you know that.”
Hea cast Fritha a look of gratitude. The woman had no idea what those words meant to her. To become an outcast here would make life intolerable. She then plastered on a brave smile and hoisted up her colorful bunches of spring flowers. “Well then, I’d better do another circuit of the square.”
Fritha smiled back. “That’s the spirit.”
Hea set off once more, calling out to the crowd as she went. “Get your spring flowers here—daffodils, jonquils, bluebells, and snowdrops!”
A few yards on, a fisherwoman, who was selling smoked herrings by the gate, bought some daffodils, and shortly after a girl bought some bluebells for her mother. Clearly, now that the priest had disappeared from their midst, folk had relaxed somewhat.
She had almost completed her circuit of the market square, weaving out of the crowds of people haggling over produce, fish, meat, and cheeses, when Hea spotted another familiar—if unwelcome—face.
Rinan.
Like Oswald earlier, the warrior had not seen her.
Instead, his gaze was fixed upon a pretty young wench who was selling turnips, carrots, and onions.
She was small, with hair the color of mead, and had a slender figure …
yet it was clear from her expression that she did not welcome Rinan’s attentions.
Hea observed them as she walked slowly through the crowd. She had always enjoyed watching people interact—the things they said without meaning to by their gestures and expressions.
Plenty was being said now by both parties.
Rinan was keen. His ruddy face was beet-red, and even at this distance, Hea could see he was sweating.
He had combed out his unruly straw-colored hair and tied it back with a leather thong; he was also wearing what looked to be his best breeches and tunic, and sported several bronze and silver armrings on his bare, muscular arms—all tributes to his bravery on behalf of the king.
The girl was also flushed, although not for the same reason as Rinan. She did her best to avoid his intense stare, her gaze darting around like a hunted fawn. She backed off from him, picking up a turnip and clutching it to her breast as if to ward off his attentions.
Undaunted, Rinan stepped closer, speaking passionately now, his hands gesticulating. The girl backed off further, shaking her head.
Watching them, Hea felt an uncharacteristic stab of pity for Rinan.
She had never forgotten, nor forgiven, what he had done to her years earlier, but it seemed as if that day had cast a curse upon him.
To her knowledge, he had never tried to force a woman to submit to his kiss again—but neither had any agreed to wed him.
Watching him now, she realized he really was useless with women.
Hea guessed that the warrior had come here to propose to the farm girl—something she was not interested in pursuing.
Eventually, realizing that the object of his desire was on the verge of losing her patience and hurling the turnip she clutched at him, Rinan backed off.
Muttering what looked to be an embarrassed apology, he turned and loped away through the crowd.
Straight for Hea.
Their gazes met, and she realized he knew she had been watching his humiliation.
Rinan frowned. He marched across the few yards separating them and stopped before Hea, looming over her.
“Enjoyed that, did you?” he growled.
Hea stared back at him, refusing to be intimidated, and feigned innocence. “I don’t know what you mean, Rinan,” she said sweetly. “Perhaps you’d like to buy some flowers for your sweetheart?”
His expression darkened, and for a moment Hea worried that he might strike her. “I don’t need your help,” he snarled. “Have you put a curse on me, wicce?”
Hea glared back at him. “If only I could, I’d have turned you into a toad years ago.”
His face twisted and he stepped back from her. “You’ll not be so smug forever. One of these days, Ecgfrith is going to find another favorite. You won’t be so quick with your insults then.”
He stormed off, his huge frame rigid with outrage. Hea watched him go, and let out the breath she had been holding. Only then did she realize that she was shaking.
King Ecgfrith swung his wooden blade hard across the back of his opponent’s legs, sending Rinan sprawling into the mud.
“Concentrate!” Ecgfrith barked. “What’s wrong with you today?”
Rinan picked himself up, red-faced. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Just distracted.”
“There’s no time for distraction in a shield wall,” Ecgfrith snarled. “Do you want a Pict sword in your guts?”
Rinan’s expression told him he did not. Ecgfrith pointed to the wooden practice sword that Rinan had dropped in the mud. “Pick that up and let’s go again.”
The warrior stooped to obey him, just as a man on horseback thundered into the yard, through the high gate.
Rinan momentarily forgotten, Ecgfrith turned to the newcomer. He did not recognize the young man who approached, his face flushed and sweaty. He looked as if he had ridden hard; mud splattered his cloak and boots.
“Lord Ecgfrith,” he gasped, drawing his horse up at the edge of the ring of men who had gathered to watch the king spar. “I have ill-news from the north.”
Ecgfrith wiped a forearm across his sweaty forehead and squinted at the man. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“My name is Theodred, sire. I’m son of Berht, Ealdorman of Ord.” The man paused here, to gather his breath, before continuing. “Villages north of us, milord, they’ve been attacked.”
Ecgfrith went still. “By whom?”
The young man held his gaze, unwavering, and Ecgfrith knew before he replied who was responsible. There was only one man who would have the nerve, who would dare raid Northumbrian lands.
Bridei mac Beli.