Nightfall till Daybreak (The Kingdom of the East Angles Book 2) Read online

  Nightfall till Daybreak

  A Historical Romance set in Anglo-Saxon England

  Book Two

  The Kingdom of the East Angles

  Jayne Castel

  Historical romances by Jayne Castel

  The Kingdom of the East Angles series

  Night Shadows (prequel novella)

  Dark Under the Cover of Night (Book One)

  Nightfall till Daybreak (Book Two)

  The Deepening Night (Book Three)

  The Kingdom of the East Angles: The Complete Series

  The Kingdom of Mercia series

  The Breaking Dawn (Book One)

  Darkest before Dawn (Book Two)

  Dawn of Wolves (Book Three)

  All characters and situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  Nightfall till Daybreak by Jayne Castel

  Copyright © 2013 Jayne Castel. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Edited by Tim Burton.

  Cover photography courtesy of www.istockphotos.com.

  Cover design by vikncharlie: http://www.fiverr.com/vikncharlie

  Maps courtesy of Wikipedia.

  Visit Jayne’s website and blog: www.jaynecastel.com

  Follow Jayne on Twitter: @JayneCastel

  ***

  For Tim, with love.

  ***

  Contents

  Maps

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Epilogue

  Historical note from the author

  Other works by Jayne Castel

  About the author

  Wyrd oft nereð unfaégne eorl þonne his ellen déah.

  Fate often saves an undoomed man when his courage is good.

  Excerpt from Beowulf

  Prologue

  Spring, 629 A.D.

  North coast of Gaul – Kingdom of the Franks

  The waves crashed against the rocks, sending foam into the salty air. Gulls shrieked overhead and a cold wind whipped off the churning sea. The wind stung Aidan’s face as he walked towards the four longships.

  His men had dragged them up to the waterline and were readying the large boats for their journey to Britannia. Sigeberht was already there waiting, his tall spare frame wrapped in thick furs. He spied Aidan’s approach and walked forward to meet him. Sigeberht’s grey eyes were steely; his long, wind-burnt face set in determination when he stopped before his thegn.

  “Are we ready?”

  “Yes, milord.”

  “Will four ships be enough?”

  The wind whipped Aidan’s dark hair in his eyes. He pushed it aside before answering.

  “You have one hundred and twenty-two spears. I could find you more but there is no time.”

  Sigeberht’s mouth thinned at Aidan’s response. He looked out across the churning grey sea. It was not ideal weather to journey in but they could not delay.

  “Britannia.” Sigeberht savored the word as his gaze focused on the northern horizon. “I’ve spent so many years in exile that I can barely remember my homeland.”

  Aidan did not reply, knowing that his lord’s decision to leave Gaul and return to the Kingdom of the East Angles had not been easy. News of the murder of Eorpwald – Sigeberht’s half-brother – at the hands of Ricbehrt the Usurper had forced him to leave his life dedicated to the study of Christianity and learning, and go to war.

  “I must have reckoning for Eorpwald’s death,” Sigeberht repeated the vow that had spurred him on this journey. “The Usurper cannot wear the East Anglian crown. I may not be of true Wuffinga blood but I am the rightful heir to the throne. I must take it back for my family.”

  Aidan nodded. “You will have your reckoning milord.”

  Sigeberht smiled and clasped his arm around Aidan’s shoulders. Together the two men walked to the nearest longship, where warriors were starting to push it into the water; it took nearly forty men to heave the heavy craft into the waves.

  “I thank thee Aidan. I could not do this without you.”

  “You gave a lost Irish boy his freedom.” Aidan grinned back at Sigeberht. His lord’s thanks brightened the chill spring day. “I told you I would never forget that. I would lead this army against the northmen if you asked it!”

  “Let us pray to our Lord that it never comes to that!” Sigeberht gave a rare laugh. “I will have enough heathens to deal with back in Rendlaesham!”

  With that, Sigeberht climbed onto the longship and took his place at the stern. He pulled his fur cloak close around him and nodded to Aidan.

  “Gāð!” Aidan shouted, “go!”

  Aidan ran to the next ship and helped haul the massive craft into the rolling surf. He waded into the water, feeling its chill bite through his breeches and fur-lined boots. Then, he swung up onto the boat and settled himself at the stern.

  Before him, forty warriors jostled into place, each taking hold of a heavy oak oar. Moving as one, they propelled the longship through the choppy waves and out into the open sea. Aidan glanced behind him and saw the final two boats were also afloat and cutting their way through the surf. Ahead, Sigeberht’s longship moved swiftly northeast. Aidan could see them unfurling the sail from the ship’s central mast, and he called to his men to do the same.

  The longship, loaded with warriors, weapons and supplies, sat low in the water. Yet, its shallow-draft hull allowed it to move swiftly through the waves like a fleet sea creature. The biting wind whipped away the shouts of his men as they heaved their oars through the heavy swells.

  At the front of the boat, his strong face creased in concentration, sat Lothar. Like most of the men in Sigeberht’s army, Lothar was a Frank. The same age, Aidan and Lothar had grown from boys to men under Sigeberht’s roof. Blond and built like an ox, Lothar was just the sort of man Aidan wanted at his side when they attacked Rendlaesham. Besides Sigeberht, there was no one he trusted more.

  “Enjoying the ride?” Lothar shouted at his friend over the wind, and pulled back on the oars once again. “I wouldn’t want you to feel useless, perched there like a maid at her distaff!”

  Aidan snorted. “I’ll take my turn soon enough Lothar. Just keep rowing!”

  Lothar grinned, his teeth flashing white against his tawny beard.

  An arc of sea-spray cascaded over the boat, drenching them all and cutting Lothar and Aidan’s conversation short.

  Blinking the water out of his eyes, Aidan looked about – a grey, cold world surrounded him. The sea was the color of beaten iron and the sky that of smoke. It was not long before the coastline of northern Gaul, Aidan’s home for the past seventeen years, receded to a green and brown strip on the southern horizon.

  Aidan looked towards their de
stination and, although they were still some way off, he caught a glimpse of white cliffs on the horizon.

  Britannia.

  A thrill of excitement went through Aidan at the thought of what lay ahead. At twenty-seven winters, he longed for a challenge. Aidan had been only ten when he was taken from his village in Connacht, West Ireland. Saxon raiders had attacked, pillaged and set fire to his village and Aidan had been among the handful of slaves those blond savages had taken away. Once they reached Gaul, the raiders sold Aidan to a long-faced young man with fierce grey eyes: Sigeberht, the exiled stepson of King Raedwald of the East Angles.

  Woden, father of the gods, had favored Aidan, for his new master treated him kindly and upon Aidan’s sixteenth summer, he gave his slave freedom. Aidan could have left Sigeberht’s hall then, but he had chosen to stay on as a retainer. His loyalty had paid off, for now he commanded this small but fiercely loyal army.

  If Sigeberht's attack succeeded, his lord would soon be King of East Angles – a massive step up in the world from the exiled man who lived like one of the monks he admired so much. In truth, there were times when Aidan found Sigeberht a bit dry and humorless; his devotion to Christianity influenced all who lived under his roof. Aidan, like all the others, had converted to his lord's religion. Yet, in secret, Aidan still prayed to the old gods – Woden and Thor meant more to him than this new god who appeared to praise abstinence and piousness above all else.

  Aidan kept his gaze on those white cliffs. He urged Lothar and his men on; his throat straining with the effort it took to be heard over the roar of the wind. Soon he would be standing on Britannia's fair soil and breathing in her fine air. A new life awaited him, and Aidan was impatient to embark upon it.

  Chapter One

  Three days later

  Spring, 629 A.D.

  Kingdom of the East Angles, Britannia

  Freya gently peeled a piece of lichen off a rock and placed it in her basket. Straightening her aching back, she inhaled the briny air deep into her lungs and gazed out to sea. A cold breeze whipped her long dark-red hair around her face and snagged at her shawl.

  Despite the chill, it was a beautiful day to be gathering lichen for her mother’s herbal remedies; clear and bright with white billowy clouds scudding across the sky. She stood on the edge of a flat landscape dominated by a huge sky. The North Sea glittered like beaten bronze this morning and waves foamed against the pebbly beach. To the north, stretched an endless shingle shore, and although a low bluff blocked her view to the south, Freya knew that the mouth to the Woodbridge Haven estuary lay beyond.

  Freya’s bare feet sank into the shingle as she continued her way along the shoreline. Humming gently to herself, Freya went about collecting the lichen; carefully peeling it off rocks with a small bone handled knife and placing each precious piece in her basket.

  Eventually, her basket was a third full but despite her aching back, Freya was reluctant to return home just yet. An afternoon of weaving awaited her; Freya’s most hated chore. She had time for a short dip in the sea.

  During the summer, Freya often stripped and swam naked here, even though the sea’s chill took her breath away. Today it was far too cold for such things but she still wanted to feel the salt-water on her skin. Putting her basket aside, Freya hiked her sleeveless shift and woolen over-dress up around her hips and slid down the steep shingle bank to where the water sucked against the shore.

  Freya let out a shriek as the cold bit into her flesh. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to wade forward till the surf foamed against her thighs. The power of the North Sea awed her, as always. It was rarely a tranquil sea, and hardly ever blue. Yet, it was all that divided Britannia from the barbaric lands beyond.

  Freya was gazing at the horizon, lost in her thoughts, when a man’s voice shattered her peace.

  “Wes hāl!”

  Freya turned, nearly falling in her haste; her gaze fixing upon a dark haired man standing upon the shingle bank.

  He was possibly the most attractive male she had ever seen in her twenty winters. Dressed in well-fitting breeches cross-gartered to the knee and a loose shirt, the man had a lithe, athletic frame. He wore a heavy belt buckled at his waist and his black hair fell in waves about his shoulders. His face was beautiful – piercing blue eyes, a slight cleft in his chin, a straight nose and high cheekbones – marred only by an arrogant smirk. His gaze raked her from head to toe.

  It was then that Freya noticed the stranger was holding her basket of lichen.

  “Hello!” he repeated his greeting. “It’s rare I go walking and find a red-haired nymph cavorting in the sea. What a pleasure!”

  Freya’s shock at having her peace intruded upon was replaced by anger. Where had he come from? He did not look or sound like men from any of the villages nearby. His eye-color and raven hair marked him as a Celt rather than an Angle and he had a pleasant, lilting accent. Aware that she was standing with her naked legs uncovered, she waded to the shoreline and let her skirts fall about her ankles.

  “That basket belongs to me.” She struggled up the bank towards him, the soft shingle making her movement ungainly. “And I’d thank you to give it back and spy elsewhere!”

  To her irritation the man laughed. As she neared him she saw he was young, under thirty winters, and even more attractive than she had previously noted – his smooth skin and long eyelashes were enough to make any woman envious.

  “I wasn’t spying.” He grinned, backing away from her and holding out the basket teasingly just out of her reach. “Can a weary traveler be blamed if he comes upon a fair wench bathing? I’m a leather merchant traveling to Gipeswic to sell my wares. I thought I’d take a stroll along the shore before catching the evening tide up the Deben – and I’m glad I did. I was hoping you were about to disrobe completely. What a disappointment!”

  “Churl! Give me back my basket!”

  “Not till this pretty siren gives me a kiss!” he taunted, flicking the basket once again just out of reach.

  “Dog!” Freya lost her patience and lunged for him. The man took a couple of rapid steps backwards to avoid a collision but slipped in the quicksand-like pebbles.

  The basket of lichen went flying and the pair of them sprawled to the ground.

  Freya found herself lying atop this arrogant stranger, her body pressed along the length of his. Her face flamed and she was struggling to get off him when, quick as a striking adder, he rolled over so that she was under him.

  A moment later, his mouth came down on hers, smothering Freya’s rage. The touch of his lips against hers, soft yet insistent, momentarily drove all thought from Freya’s mind. His fingers tangled in her curls. She gasped at the unbidden heat that suddenly pulsed between them.

  “Get off me!” Freya shoved at his chest and knocked him backwards. Then she drew back her right hand and slapped his face, hard. Her sanity had returned.

  Laughing, the stranger quickly rolled off her, and held his hands up in surrender.

  “Such a fiery wench! Fire to match your flame hair. Have no fear, I only wanted a kiss, nothing more!”

  “Come near me again and I’ll kick you in the cods!” Freya scrambled to her feet and retrieved her basket.

  “You would too,” the stranger replied, not bothering to get up, but sitting back and admiring her. His blue eyes twinkled. “I like a girl with spirit!”

  Freya ground her teeth together and swallowed her next insult. The dog was clearly enjoying this and she would not give him the satisfaction by engaging him further. She could feel his gaze upon her as she gathered the scattered lichen. Beneath her rage, she felt all hot and confused. She was anxious to get away from this man. He had ruined her peaceful afternoon. She hated the way he found her so amusing.

  Retrieving the last piece of lichen, Freya turned and bolted for the bank.

  “Wait,” he called after her, “Hwæt is þīn nama?”

  If he thought she would ever tell him her name then he was stupid as well as arrogant.
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  Freya fled into the woods and did not look back.

  ***

  Aidan watched the pretty flame-haired maid storm off and raised a hand to where she had slapped him. The skin still stung but Aidan did not mind; he had deserved it.

  What a girl, he smiled at her retreating back and got to his feet, ‘tis a pity I’ll never see her again.

  She was a beauty – with creamy skin and long, shapely limbs. Her hair was like red fire tumbling down her back. It was not the first time he had seen a redhead, but he had never met a girl with as much presence as this one. The memory of her flashing green eyes and the feel of that beautiful mouth under his, suddenly made his breeches feel uncomfortably tight.

  Aidan regretfully turned and began walking south. Now was not the time to be distracted by winsome wenches. Sigeberht would be wondering what had become of him. After two days on the longship, journeying across the water between Gaul and Britannia, and then north along the coast, Aidan had been eager to stretch his legs; never imagining what he might find during his walk.

  Aidan left the shingle shore and climbed up onto the low bluff. It was a windswept outcrop of land with a flat top. He crossed it and made his way down a grassy slope towards the waiting longships. Before him glittered the wide estuary known as Woodbridge Haven. The estuary was the mouth to the river Deben. On the muddy bank rested Sigeberht’s four longships. It was a remote and largely uninhabited area. Sigeberht had assured them there would be few locals to notice their presence here.

  Joining the others, Aidan hoped his story about being a leather merchant on his way to Gipeswic had convinced the girl. He knew he should tell Sigeberht about her. Yet, something stopped him. Sigeberht would be angry on two counts: that he had let himself be seen, and that he had let the girl go. She could raise the alarm and destroy their whole campaign. Still, Aidan decided to keep quiet. Trusting his instincts, Aidan doubted the redhead would cause problems for them.