Chapter Twenty-three Nechtansmere
Chapter Twenty-three
Nechtansmere
Alone in the tent, Hea sat upon a fur, hands clenched in her lap … and waited for the King of the Picts.
The moment the Pict warriors had circled them, trapping them inside the valley, she had known it would come to this. Only now that the moment had arrived she felt sick. Defeat tasted like vinegar in her mouth. Not only that, but her vision had led Ecgfrith astray—resulting in his defeat and death.
Hea clenched her hands, her fingernails digging into her palms. Guilt swamped her. Oswald’s prediction that she would end up with blood on her hands had come to pass. She would never forgive herself.
And now she was a prisoner in the enemy camp.
She was not sure why she had tried to hide her identity. They would have discovered her sooner or later. And yet she had been a coward; she had not wanted to face Bridei and would take any measures to avoid it.
The look on his face, when she had lowered her hood, had almost been comical.
She had expected surprise—but the shock that rippled across his face, the way his mouth had dropped open—had disarmed her. Had she imagined it … or had she seen joy flare in those dark eyes before he had quickly masked it?
Surely, it had been wishful thinking, for the cool expression that replaced his unguarded surprise was the one she remembered him having all those months earlier when they had parted in Bebbanburg.
He had turned to Heolstor, who still stood gaping at her, his voice low and clipped. “Bring her to my tent.”
Those words had filled Hea will cold terror. And now, here she was a while later, still waiting for the executioner to arrive.
He was making her wait … she knew it. The longer she waited, the more she would fret, and he wanted to make her suffer.
Hea inhaled deeply and twisted her shaking hands together.
Calm yourself. He’s just a man, she counseled herself. If this is to be your end, show some spine.
The flap covering the entrance to the tent twitched then, alerting her to someone’s arrival. A heartbeat later, Bridei entered the tent.
The tent was large, bigger than most dwellings, with a high domed roof that had a slit in the top to let out smoke.
An iron brazier, in which a lump of peat smoldered, sat in the center of the space, and piles of soft furs lay around the edges of the tent.
Yet the moment Bridei entered, the tent felt tiny and airless. A cage.
His very presence sent Hea into crisis.
Half naked, save a pair of plaid breeches, Bridei padded barefoot across the fur and stopped before the brazier, his gaze settling upon Hea, pinning her to the spot.
Hea’s breathing stopped, and a hot tide crept over her body.
Nithhogg take this man for being so virile.
His gaze stripped her bare. The past few months disappeared, and she remembered how it had felt to lie with him, taste him …
Stop it.
Hea blinked and tore her gaze from his, fixing it instead upon her clenched hands in her lap.
That night belonged to another life … it was gone, lost forever.
A long silence stretched out between them before Bridei eventually broke it. “Why are you here, Hea?”
She glanced up, steeling herself as she met his gaze once more. “I asked to join Ecgfrith’s fyrd … he needed my counsel.”
Bridei stiffened. “And did you foresee this end?”
Hea’s heart began to thud as she shook her head. She could not bring herself to tell him the truth. She swallowed, her throat suddenly tight, before she replied. “No … it seems my gift has deserted me.”
“Really?”
“Aye—I was no help to Ecgfrith. He should have left me behind.”
A beat of silence. “Yes, he should have.”
Hea stared back at Bridei, for once wholeheartedly agreeing with him. The things she had seen today—the blood, the carnage—would haunt her dreams for the rest of her life.
She inhaled once more, steadying her nerves, as she lifted her chin slightly. “What will happen to us … those Northumbrians you have captured?”
Bridei crossed to a low, wooden table, where an earthen jug of wine and a stack of wooden cups sat. Hea’s gaze followed him, marking the man’s fluid, stalking gait. He mesmerized her; he always had. Hea clenched her jaw; she needed to fight this.
He poured two cups before crossing to where Hea sat and passing her one.
“You’re my slaves … to be executed, sold, or traded at my discretion.”
The words were cold, delivered in such a matter-of-fact manner that Hea flinched. She should not be surprised. Slaves were a part of their world; Ecgfrith had them, as did most of the kings of Britannia. Yet to know slaves existed was one thing … to be one was another.
Hea had always valued her freedom—more than most women. Her mother had been wild and had brought up her daughter the same way.
Panic fluttered up under her rib cage as the full weight of Bridei’s words settled upon her. Still, she did her best not to show it, instead taking a sip of wine. It was blackberry: rich and spicy.
Bridei sat down a few feet away, settling to the ground with that loose-limbed ease she remembered. For the first time, she noted the bloodstain on his left thigh. Seeing the direction of her gaze, Bridei gave a tight smile.
“A parting gift from your beloved Ecgfrith. Don’t worry though—my gift to him caused more damage.”
Hea watched him. “So you killed him?”
Bridei nodded.
“And how did it feel, to slay the man you’ve hated for so long?”
Bridei went still. He observed her a moment, studying her face. “It was the best moment of my life,” he replied.
The flatness of his voice gave him away.
“Liar.” Hea raised her cup to her lips and took a deep draft, welcoming the warmth that slid down her throat and pooled in her belly. “You’re disappointed.”
Bridei snorted. “You haven’t changed a bit, Hea … still far too sure of yourself for a woman.”
She met his gaze, her spine stiffening. “And you haven’t changed either. Still insufferably arrogant.”
Bridei threw back his head and laughed, the deep sound echoing through the tent. To Hea’s ire, his eyes were twinkling when their gazes met once more. “Gods, how I’ve missed that scald’s tongue.”
Bridei sipped his wine, watching Hea under lowered lids.
He had missed more than that. He had missed everything about her. The sound of her voice; the stubborn set of her jaw; the brightness of her green eyes; and those full, soft lips.
And that body, that lush, soft body hidden from view by the cloak she still wore. In the aftermath of battle, he longed to tear her clothes off her, throw her down on the furs and claim her as his.
Yet—as strong as his reaction to her was—he did not let it show on his face.
Truthfully, he was still in shock at finding her here … and surprised by the strength of his reaction to seeing her again.
Joy—pure and undiluted. The first real moment of happiness in months.
Bridei reflected on this as he observed her. She sat, tense and nervous, a few feet away, clutching her cup of wine as if it were her salvation. He wondered at what was going through her mind. Had she missed him?
The attraction between them was still as powerful as it had been all those months ago in Bebbanburg. When their gazes had met outside, it had felt as if someone had punched him, just below the ribs.
But there was something different about Hea.
Her face and eyes were not friendly, yet there was a brittleness to her, an edge, he had not seen before.
Back in Bebbanburg, she had been lighthearted, with a poise that was gone now.
Out here, far to the north of the only world she had ever known, Hea appeared lost.
Bridei continued to watch her, noting that she had dropped her gaze to avoid his. He nursed his own cup of wine, drinking slowly and reflecting on the events that had led up to this moment.
Today should have been the happiest day of his life.
He had accomplished his life’s goal: Ecgfrith was dead, and he was now the undisputed king of the north.
But Bridei felt strangely hollow. He had stood in that valley, listening to his warriors’ roars of victory, and wondered why he did not feel jubilant.
Right now, the only thing that mattered was this woman sitting across from him.
Bridei did not share his thoughts with Hea. Now was not the time. After everything she had been through, she would not welcome—or trust—anything he said.
He would wait. Now that Hea was his captive there was no need to rush things.
Hea pulled her woolen cloak close and looked about her. After the sparkling sunshine of the last two days—for the battle had unfolded under a hard blue sky—the weather had turned gloomy to match her mood.
A thick, milky mist curled in from the still, dark mere the Pict army had camped beside—Nechtansmere, her people called it.
Although last night, Bridei had named this place Dun Nechtáin.
Nechtan Lake or Nechtan Hill, it did not matter to her.
For Hea, it would always be an evil place, full of dark memories.
Around her, Bridei’s men readied themselves to ride west. The sea of hide tents heaved off the green hills as men rolled up the sheets of leather and slung them across the backs of their horses.
Their mood was jubilant—although the day before the warriors had been somber as they prepared the bodies of their dead for the journey home, shrouding them in linen and leather, before placing their corpses upon tarpaulin-covered wagons.
Hea had heard that the Picts buried their dead in stone cairns, unlike her own people who burned theirs and let the wind scatter the ash.
Bridei’s men had cleared the valley of the fallen Northumbrian warriors the day before and burned them upon a great pyre as dusk fell.
Oily smoke had stained the evening sky black, long before the last of the light faded.
This morning, the pall of grief had lifted. Hea watched the dark-haired Pict warriors, bodies still smeared with blue woad, laughing and ribbing each other while they packed up.
Hea’s stomach cramped. The tight circle of Northumbrians she stood with had no reason for high spirits this morning.
Bridei stood a few feet away, next to a sturdy wooden cart drawn by a dun pony. Upon the cart lay a shrouded body … Ecgfrith.
“Priest.” Bridei motioned to where Oswald cowered at the back of the group of Northumbrians. “Come forward.”
Oswald did as bid, although he was trembling, his face ashen, his eyes hollowed.
No doubt he expected this to be his end.
The Picts were heathens, they would not suffer him in their midst. Pity lanced through Hea as she watched Oswald.
They would never be friends, but she felt a kinship with him after all they had been through together.
Would Bridei make a sacrifice of him, make an example of him in front of his men?
“Ecgfrith must have a king’s burial,” Bridei said curtly when the priest stood before him. “You will see it done.”
Hea watched Oswald sag at this news, and for a moment she thought his legs might collapse under him.
Ignoring the priest’s relief, Bridei continued. “Ecgfrith’s half-brother, Flann Fína, lives upon the Isle of Iona. Take the king’s body there, bury him, and inform Flann Fína that his time of exile has ended. Bebbanburg needs him.”
Hea marked the looks of surprise among the Northumbrians, including Rinan’s. The warrior could barely stand this morning and did so only by leaning onto a crudely-made wooden crutch. He was glowering at Bridei, clearly not trusting him.
Hea knew what Bridei was up to. The Pict leader was no fool.
She had forgotten how politically aware he was; of course, he had grown up knowing of Ecgfrith’s half-brother, sired by Oswiu, but whose mother had been an Irish princess.
Flann Fína—or Aldfrith as he was known to the Angles—would make an ideal king in Bridei’s view, for he was a man of peace who had voluntarily chosen to live a hermit’s life.
It was a shrewd choice on Bridei’s part … the last thing he wanted was another king like Ecgfrith challenging his rule.
“You will choose four warriors,” Bridei continued, “those whose wounds will not slow your journey to the isle, and be on your way this morning.”
Oswald nodded, seeming to have swallowed his tongue.
Bridei’s gaze shifted from the priest then, seizing upon a young warrior who stood near the front of the Northumbrians. Barely out of boyhood, his chin covered with blond fluff rather than a beard, the warrior met Bridei’s eye boldly.
Bridei’s mouth thinned. “You’ll do … I need someone to ride south and bring word to Bebbanburg. Leave now, and when you return home, tell them what happened here, what happens to those who try to enslave my people. Tell them that their new king will reach them shortly.”
The warrior held his gaze before giving a curt nod. A wise response for, like Oswald, he had earned his freedom.
Satisfied, Bridei’s dark gaze swept over the ragged group of Northumbrians that remained. “The rest of you are coming back to Dundurn with me,” he said with a thin smile, “where your fate will be decided.”
Hea pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes and approached the cart bearing Ecgfrith’s body. Bridei had gone off to help his men get ready for their departure, leaving the ragged band of Northumbrians to say goodbye to their king.
Oswald climbed onboard the cart, while the four men he had chosen gathered near, ready to set out.
Standing at the edge of the cart, Hea looked down at the shrouded body.
She was grateful that they had covered up his face.
She did not want to see his wounds, his last expression before he died.
She stood there for a few moments and wondered if she was supposed to feel anything.
This man was her father after all. Yet only numbness filled her.
“We will take our king to Iona, and give him the burial he deserves.” Oswald’s voice intruded, and Hea glanced up, her gaze meeting his. For the first time since they departed Bebbanburg, the priest appeared at ease. Bridei had given him a reprieve, and he intended to see out his task.
Hea nodded. He probably thought the solemn look on her face was grief at losing her king, but instead, it was sadness.
For Ecgfrith, for her … for her mother …
for them all. She stepped back then, drawing her cloak tighter around her as a gust of wind tore across the exposed hillside.
“I have no doubt you will,” she murmured. “I wish you a safe journey, Oswald.”
She saw something flit across his face, a shadow move in his eyes.
Oswald’s gaze flicked to where Rinan and the other Northumbrians stood a few feet back from Hea, and she realized he was wondering what would become of them.
“May God protect you all,” he said finally, crossing himself, “for whatever lies in your paths.”