Chapter Twenty The Bastard
Chapter Twenty
The Bastard
A wave of nausea swept over Hea. She stared at King Ecgfrith of Northumbria as if truly seeing him for the first time.
Suddenly, the few details her mother had shared with her over the years fell into place. For the first time, she understood why Lewren had been so vague about the man who had fathered Hea. Her tale of him riding away to war and never returning had been a deliberate lie to throw Hea off the scent.
To hide the identity of her real sire.
Hea swallowed with difficulty. “You’re my father?”
Ecgfrith’s face twisted. “You look horrified, Hea—did you really never suspect?”
Hea shook her head. Her tongue felt cloven to the roof of her mouth. She remembered her mother’s final, bitter words on her deathbed—it all made sense now.
“Did you ever ask yourself why your mother and you both lived unmolested in my stronghold?” Ecgfrith asked.
Frankly, Hea had thought it was due to their positions as seer. However, the king’s words felt as if someone had just dumped a bucket of cold seawater over her head.
“Why … why did she never tell me?” Hea finally managed. Her legs felt weak, and she stumbled over to a stool to the left of the brazier, where she seated herself without asking for the king’s permission—something she would never have dared do … until now.
“I warned her from doing so,” Ecgfrith replied. “I had just been made king, and was awaiting the arrival of my betrothed from East Anglia—I could not have word reaching my new bride that I had sired a bastard.”
Hea flinched at the word, but Ecgfrith did not seem to notice. Instead, his gaze was upon the dancing flames of the brazier as he continued to speak.
“Not that it would have mattered if Aethelhild had learned of your existence—for she was a frigid bitch who refused to lie with me.”
So you raped her handmaid instead …
Bile rose in Hea’s throat. She had heard the tale about the young, innocent Aelfwyn, and what the king had done to her.
This man is my father.
If Hea had been alone, she would have wept. “Did my mother lie with you … willingly?” she finally choked out. She had to know the truth. Had Lewren loved this man?
Ecgfrith’s eyes narrowed and Hea studied his face. She had spent little time gazing at her own reflection, just a few instances in a still pond over the years. Yet she knew that she bore no resemblance to him.
“Did I rape her, you mean?”
Hea’s pulse accelerated, but she held firm and nodded. “Did you?”
A nerve feathered in Ecgfrith’s jaw, and she saw anger flicker across his lean face. But she did not care if her boldness earned her a flogging, or if he sent her away. The shock of learning she was his bastard had made her cast aside all her cares.
She wanted the truth.
“I was young when I met Lewren,” he growled finally. “Far younger than you are now, as was she. And when you have that age, you care not for the future. We had one summer together, and then her womb quickened. We could not continue to see each other, but Lewren took a while to accept that.”
Hea choked down her own anger. She imagined her mother’s hurt when her lover turned on her. Now she understood the bitterness that had festered within Lewren for years.
“A flower seller and a king.” Ecgfrith ran a hand through his short sandy hair, and Hea was surprised to note that his hand trembled slightly.
“What would my kingdom think of that? I’d have been reviled, a laughing stock.
A king must wed to strengthen his political alliances, to secure his borders … not for love.”
Hea stared at him. “Did you love her?”
Ecgfrith snorted and rose to his feet, pacing the perimeter of the tent. “Women have such a simplistic view of the world,” he muttered. “Your mother did too. What does love matter? What counts is power—the warrior and the sword are the only things of value in this world.”
Watching him, Hea felt a pang of pity. What a hollow existence this man had led. He had forsaken human warmth and kindness for a cold, empty throne. Neither of his wives had produced an heir. If he survived the coming days, he would grow into a bitter old man.
“And yet you did care for her,” Hea observed. “I see it on your face.”
Ecgfrith stopped pacing and whirled round to face her.
“It was all a long time ago.” He bit out each word as if they cost him.
“Another lifetime. It’s all gone now—all dead and buried.
” His voice died away then, his gaze pinning her to the spot.
“Except you … my bastard daughter. My gifted daughter.”
Hearing him claim her as his caused panic to grip Hea’s ribcage in a vise. Confusion turned her mind to porridge and robbed her of her wits. She did not know what to say, or how to respond. There were no words that could convey how she felt at that moment.
As a child, she had lain awake at night imagining what it would have been like to be reunited with her long-lost father. What if he had not died in battle but returned victorious? She had imagined how happy she would be—how the three of them would become the family she had always craved.
Never in her wildest imaginings had she suspected this.
Alone in her tiny tent, Hea wept.
She had gone to the king, thinking he wanted her counsel. It would have been the perfect opportunity to caution him about his single-minded pursuit of Bridei’s army north. She had wanted to advise him against being reckless and overconfident.
None of that seemed to matter now though … not in the face of what she had just learned.
Hea’s chest constricted as she attempted to muffle her sobs with her hands. Why now? Why reveal the truth about her parentage on the road to war?
Perhaps Ecgfrith had become aware of his own mortality of late—maybe he had wanted her to know the truth of her bloodline …
just in case the battle went ill. He was not a sentimental man, she knew that, and yet he was an inherently lonely one.
It was his own doing—for he had made choices at a young age that had led to his current state.
Hea scrubbed at her burning eyes. She had come north hoping to make a difference, but hopelessness now consumed her.
My mother lay with that man.
The truth was that although she was loyal to Ecgfrith—for he was her king—she hated the thought of him being her father. He was a cold, calculating, and selfish individual. A chill went through her as she considered the truth.
His blood runs through my veins … perhaps I am a little like him?
The rain pelted down, great sheets tearing across the land of green hills and shallow valleys. It was not cold, just unrelentingly wet—the rain had started shortly after dawn, and as noon approached, it showed no sign of ceasing.
The army moved steadily north, although the mood had changed this morning.
There was a tension in the air that had not been there a day earlier, as if the men sensed battle was approaching.
Even the horses seemed on edge, including Hea’s pony, Rowan.
She had to keep him on a short rein, as he jogged, tossed his head, and snorted.
Even so, Hea found it hard to pay attention to her surroundings as she traveled in the rear guard of Ecgfrith’s mighty fyrd. Ever since the king’s revelation the night before, she had been in a daze.
She had not seen Ecgfrith since their conversation—in fact, she had made a point of avoiding him at sunrise. She still found it difficult to accept who he really was … who she really was.
Up ahead, the line of horses drew to an abrupt halt. Jolted out of her brooding, Hea pulled Rowan up short and peered through the curtain of rain. “Why are we stopping?” she called out to Oswald. “Is it noon already?”
He glanced back at her over his shoulder, his face drawn with exhaustion. “Not yet.”
“Something’s happening up ahead,” the warrior riding next to Oswald informed them. “Riders are approaching.”
Hea tensed at this news, for she knew that Ecgfrith had sent out scouts ahead of his army. What news had they returned with?
It took a while for the word that had reached the fyrd’s vanguard to filter down through the rest of the army—by which time Hea, Oswald, and the others around them had dismounted and were consuming a meal of dried meat and soggy bread.
“What news?” Oswald asked as the surrounding warriors muttered amongst themselves, ignoring him. “What word from the north?”
“War draws near, priest.” One of the men cast Oswald an irritated look over his shoulder. “The Pict army has gathered on a plain around fifty furlongs north of here.”
Oswald went still at this news, while Hea’s heart fluttered.
She looked around her, confused; for the first time that day she properly took in her surroundings.
This was not the landscape she had seen in her vision—the hills were too low and rounded, the sky too large.
She had seen a narrow valley with rock-studded sides rearing overhead. The news could not be right.
And yet, judging from the fierce looks on the men’s faces, it was.
A horn blew one drawn-out, mournful note that seemed to go on forever—a call to arms.
The warrior who had spoken looked over at Hea and Oswald. “You two aren’t much use in a shield wall. Stay behind the army where you’ll not get underfoot.”
Oswald’s face tightened, and he drew himself up. “I should bless the warriors,” he replied. “Give them words of courage before they go into battle.”
“We’ve heard enough from you to last a lifetime,” another man—a heavy-set man with a mane of golden hair—called out.
Hea cast a gaze over the warrior and noted that he wore Thunor’s hammer proudly around his neck.
The iron pendant glinted, even in the day’s murk.
Like many among the fyrd, he worshipped the old gods.
“Get to the back,” the man snarled, “and say your prayers where I don’t need to hear them. ”
Hea took this as her cue to depart. She climbed up onto Rowan’s back and guided him through the crowd of spearmen who were forming ranks, readying themselves for battle.
Eventually, she reached the end of the column, where a collection of wagons bearing tents and supplies squelched over the waterlogged ground.
Falling in next to them, she noted that Oswald had followed her.
However, he did not look pleased about it.
The warriors had deliberately humiliated him and spurned his assistance.
Had the king been present, they would not have been so cruel; yet Ecgfrith was occupied farther ahead, and there was no one to defend the priest.
Oswald knew when he was beaten.
“Heathens,” he growled under his breath as he reined his pony in next to Hea.
Hea quirked an eyebrow. “I thought you were supposed to be praying for them?”
The priest huffed out a frustrated breath. “Cuthbert spoke the truth,” he replied. “We should never have traveled to this godforsaken place.”