The Deepening Night (The Kingdom of the East Angles Book 3) Page 11

  Saewara’s mouth curved into a smile at that.

  “Men rarely impress me,” she replied, holding his gaze. “But you just did.”

  He drew back, surprised, before breaking eye contact and raising his cup of mead to his lips to hide his expression.

  Saewara felt a surge of satisfaction, knowing that she had succeeded in rendering him speechless. Annan had not expected her to praise him; yet, her words had been spoken in truth. She had seen far too much of the worst of men in her life. It was a relief to know that men with humanity ruled in other corners of Britannia.

  Saewara returned to her meal and took a bite of the suet crust pie.

  Suddenly, she was aware of someone’s gaze fixed upon her. Curious, she looked down the table and met Hereswith’s cold stare. Looking upon the hatred on the young woman’s face, Saewara realized that her own upcoming marriage to a man who did not want her was the least of her worries.

  Her problems at Rendlaesham were only just beginning.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Handfasting

  On the morning of her handfast ceremony, Saewara awoke in her bower with the dawn. She lay back on her furs, staring up at the beams high above, with a feeling of dread upon her.

  The sounds of the hall beyond the thick tapestries that shielded her from view had roused her from a fitful sleep. She lingered in bed, in no hurry to leave the privacy of her bower. She had been grateful to be able to spend the night alone, away from the stares and whispers that had followed Saewara since her arrival at Rendlaesham. Her bower was tiny; nothing more than a cramped, yet private, space next to the king’s quarters at the back of the hall. Apparently, this had been Raedwyn’s bower – the fiery Wuffinga princess who had sent shock-waves through her family when she married the son of her father’s arch-enemy; a man he had enslaved.

  Saewara thought on that story, which had now become folklore – and often told at fire sides throughout Britannia. She would have liked to have met Raedwyn; a woman who, like her, had been born into a role of subservience and duty – but unlike Saewara had managed to create a life of her own choosing. Such women were a rarity in their world.

  Saewara reluctantly climbed from the furs, her bare feet crunching on the rushes, and opened the small window above her bed. Pushing the wooden shutters open, she breathed in deeply. The air was cool and laced with the smell of grass and earth. She could hear the rise and fall of voices in the town below, punctuated by the bleating of goats and the honking of geese in the distance. She could see for leagues from here. Her window did not look over the town but over the vast apple orchards behind Rendlaesham and the meandering, willow-lined stream that ran through the heart of it. It was a picturesque setting, and in other circumstances, Saewara would have enjoyed it.

  “Milady,” a soft voice called from behind the tapestry. “May I come in?”

  “Yes,” Saewara called back, turning from the window. A moment later, the slave-girl, Hilda, entered her bower. This morning, she looked even more cowed than usual; her cheeks were flushed and she looked on the edge of tears.

  “I have been sent to help you dress for your handfasting,” she said timidly, her voice trailing off at the end.

  Saewara stared back at her, surprised. They both knew it was not the way things were usually done.

  A woman who was about to become queen was not dressed by a slave for her wedding ceremony. Preparing the bride for her wedding should be a grand occasion, and usually the woman would be surrounded by a flock of gushing and fussing ealdormen’s wives.

  That was not to be the case here on this occasion.

  Even on her wedding day, they shunned her. That was how it could be with women; their weapons were subtler than men’s, but when they put their mind to it they could be far crueler. Even without asking, Saewara knew that Hereswith was probably behind this. She had seen how Aethelhere’s new bride glared at her yesterday. Even after only a day in Rendlaesham, she had also noted how Hereswith held court here, almost as if she were queen. The wives of Annan’s ealdormen and thegns clustered around her, making it all the easier for Saewara to be excluded.

  Saewara sighed and gave Hilda a brittle smile.

  “Well, I am ready so let’s begin. I have two dresses that might be suitable. Can you help me choose?”

  Hilda nodded, her eyes wide on her thin face.

  “‘Tis not right,” she whispered. “A woman should feel special on her wedding day.”

  Saewara shook her head and waved a hand in dismissal. “Truthfully, I prefer your company to theirs.” She made her way over to where a collection of tunics and dresses hung against one of the tapestries. There, she took down two gowns – one a delicate cream color with a bell-neck and long sleeves; and the other dark green and sleeveless, with a low neckline and heavy gold belt that sat around her hips. “Which one?”

  Hilda studied the dresses for a moment before shaking her head. “I’m not sure – they are both beautiful. You’ll need to try them both.”

  After Saewara had tried on each gown, it was decided that, although the cream gown was, perhaps more suited to a handfast ceremony, the green dress suited Saewara best. It was made from fine wool, lined with linen and embroidered with gold around the neckline and hem. Unlike most of Saewara’s dresses, this one had a deep neckline, which showed off the swell of her breasts. The dress left her arms bare and so Hilda pushed gold arm rings onto Saewara’s arms, to match the gold thread and the heavy gold belt around her hips. Once they were satisfied with the dress, Saewara sat down on a low stool and let Hilda start on her hair.

  They talked little, for Hilda was very shy and obviously cowed by those of a higher rank. However, the silence made Saewara brood and after a while, she attempted to draw the slave girl out of her timidity.

  “Have you been here in service long?”

  “Two winters,” Hilda replied. “My father sold me to King Ricberht, hoping to find favor with the Usurper. The new king was pleased by the gift but killed my father all the same.”

  Saewara stared at Hilda in shock. Once again, the cruelty of the world they inhabited sickened her.

  “I’m sorry, Hilda.”

  The slave shrugged. “It all seems a long while ago now. Fortunately Ricberht remained in power only a short time before Sigeberht returned from exile in Gaul and took back the throne for the Wuffingas.” Hilda paused there, her eyes clouding in sadness. “I liked Sigeberht. He was a stern man, but kind. He did not deserve to die the way he did.”

  Saewara listened in silence. Of course, she knew of the battle that had claimed Sigeberht’s life. It was said that Penda himself cut the King of the East Angles down; an easy enough task as Sigeberht had refused to bear arms and had gone into battle carrying only his staff.

  “This hall was a lonely place after Sigeberht left,” Hilda continued. Now that she had started speaking she could not stop. “He spent the last few months establishing a monastery. I wonder if it still stands, or whether the Mercians burned it to the ground.”

  Saewara looked away in shame. Knowing Penda’s dislike for the god that his sister worshipped, she imagined it was the latter.

  “When Sigeberht left he took Freya with him; she was my only friend here, and life here has not been the same since,” Hilda concluded, her voice trailing off.

  “Freya? Who was she?”

  “Another slave that Ricberht had taken, just before Sigeberht and his men attacked Rendlaesham. She was not like the others here; she was free and strong despite all that had happened to her. One of Sigeberht’s men fell in love with her, but they could not be together. They both followed the king to his new home. I wonder what happened to them. I hope they survived that battle – I hope they’re together now.”

  Listening to Hilda’s tale, Saewara was overcome with melancholy. There was something heart-rending in the matter-of-fact way that Hilda spoke about tragedy.

  “Perhaps they are,” she replied in a falsely bright voice, attempting to mask the despair th
at dragged at her. “Let us believe that they are.”

  The women lapsed into silence then while Hilda brushed out Saewara’s hair in long waves. Then, she piled the hair up onto Saewara’s head and secured the coils with amber pins. It was a long, laborious process. Once it was finished, Hilda stepped back to admire her handiwork.

  “Milady, you look truly like a queen.”

  Despite herself, Saewara smiled back at her. “Thank you, Hilda – although I don’t feel like one.”

  Finally, Saewara slipped on a pair of gold-threaded slippers and dabbed some rosewater behind her ears. Hilda was now beaming at her like a proud mother; not that Saewara knew what that felt like for her own mother had died birthing her, and she had grown up without being fussed over by anyone.

  “I suppose it’s time?” she sighed. “I might as well get this over with.”

  “It won’t be so terrible,” Hilda ventured, seeing Saewara’s despair. “Annan is a good man.”

  Saewara glanced back at the slave, wondering if she knew that Annan had been planning to marry Hereswith. She must have done. She would have liked to mention Saba, to tell Hilda that the ealdorman was so infatuated with her that he had attained permission from the king to pursue her, yet she did not want to embarrass the girl. At this stage, she was not even sure if Saba’s advances were welcome. Hilda had become so used to her life as a king’s slave, she might not be able to accept another. Saba would have to be patient if he wished to win her over.

  “Yes, he is a good man,” Saewara admitted. “I don’t dispute that. However, if only the world were that simple.”

  With those words Saewara turned, and leaving Hilda with a confused look on her face, pushed aside the tapestry.

  Her betrothed awaited.

  ***

  Saewara looked down at the ribbon that the elderly woman gently wrapped around her and Annan’s joined left hands.

  She and Annan stood facing each other, although neither of them had made eye contact since they took their places on the dais at the far end of the hall. As before, the touch of his hand on hers made her pulse race; yet the discomfort of having every gaze in the crowded hall piercing her through was even more distracting.

  The woman before them was Greta, Annan’s only surviving elderly blood relative. She was his father’s older sister. A quiet woman with kind eyes, Greta finished tying the ribbon and stepped back from the couple.

  “Do you both enter this union with a free will?” she asked.

  Saewara was hit by a wave of hysteria at this question.

  Now is your last chance, Annan, she thought grimly, resisting the urge to glance in the direction of her brother’s emissary. Yffi stood near the front of the crowd beneath the dais, his gaze riveted on the couple. I would refuse but my brother would tear me limb from limb if I did so.

  “Yes,” Saewara responded, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Annan’s response was even quieter, yet audible in the still hall. “Yes.”

  “Annan, look into your betrothed’s eyes,” Greta instructed, a slight note of reprimand in her voice, “and say the words that will bind you.”

  Annan and Saewara’s gazes met then, although unlike other times when she had looked into his eyes, Saewara saw nothing but bleak resignation there.

  It is as if this is his hanging, not his wedding.

  “I, Annan of the Wuffingas, King of the East Angles, take you Saewara, daughter of Pybba of Mercia, for my wife. I will defend your body with my life.”

  A watchful silence settled upon the hall before Saewara responded in kind.

  “I, Saewara, daughter of Pybba of Mercia, take you, Annan of the Wuffingas, King of the East Angles, for my husband. I swear to never bring you harm or dishonor.”

  Then, together, Annan and Saewara said the words that would bind them.

  “May we be made one.”

  Saewara held Annan’s gaze, even though it took all her will not to look away.

  Greta then passed Annan a small cup of mead; it was an ornamental cup painted gold and encrusted with precious stones. This was the next part of the ceremony; and much easier than making promises that held no feeling.

  Saewara watched as Annan lifted the cup to his lips and took a sip. Wordlessly, he then passed the goblet to Saewara. She took a delicate sip before passing the cup back to him. As tradition dictated, Annan drained the rest in a one draught.

  Once the cup was empty, Greta handed Saewara a delicately carved wooden plate with a single honey-seed cake sitting in its center. Although seed cakes would be served at the feast afterwards, this cake was different. Greta had prepared it herself and made just one cake, throwing away the rest of the batter. Only the newly-weds were allowed to taste this cake – it was for no one else.

  Saewara broke off a piece of cake and gently fed it to Annan. It was an oddly intimate act, especially to share with a man who did not love her, in front of a hall of people who saw her as the enemy. Annan did the same, his fingers accidently brushing her lips as he did so.

  They stood there, their faces solemn, while Greta unwound the ribbon that bound them.

  “You are now man and wife,” she announced. “Annan, kiss your bride.”

  The King of the East Angles stepped forward and, stooping, kissed Saewara lightly on the lips. It was light, the mere brushing of lips, yet Saewara’s mouth tingled as he stepped away. The hall erupted into applause. The sound was muted, however, as those watching clapped more out of tradition and respect for the king than with any joy.

  Saewara tore her gaze away from Annan and looked down at her feet. Her eyes filled with tears, blurring her vision.

  It was done. Another loveless union. Another sacrifice for her people.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Way of Things

  The second feast in two days was in full swing inside the Great Hall of the Wuffingas. Such feasts were rare outside of festivities and that fact, coupled with the balmy warmth of early summer outside, created a celebratory atmosphere amongst the feasters.

  Annan, however, was in no mood for celebration. He sat back in the carved wooden chair that his predecessors had all sat upon at the feasting table, and let his gaze travel along the long table that groaned under the weight of all the food. Hilda passed by with a jug of frothy mead and moved to refill the king’s cup, but Annan shook his head and placed his hand over it, making it clear that he wanted no more to drink.

  He would be relieved when this day was over.

  Watching his ealdormen, thegns and kin eat, drink and make merry, Annan was struck by how fickle folk could be. One moment they were chafing under the Mercian yoke, enraged that their king had been forced to ‘bend the knee’ to the reviled Penda, the next they were celebrating at his handfasting as if they had not a care in the world. Further down the table, the callow youth that Penda had sent to witness the wedding was feeding his face, considerably more relaxed now that the handfasting was done. Tomorrow, the warrior would begin the journey back to Tamworth to inform the Mercian King that Annan had indeed wed Saewara.

  The handfast ceremony itself had been more of an ordeal than he had expected. Saying words that meant nothing before a crowd of disappointed faces had weighed upon him.

  The bride, despite the sadness in her eyes, had looked radiant. The green dress with its deep neckline, gold embroidered edging and heavy gold belt across the hips had accentuated her dark beauty and the lush curves of her petite frame. She had endured the ceremony with poise, although it had been evident that she had suffered through every moment.

  Saewara sat now, at his left, picking at a plate of roast duck and sipping at a cup of mead. From this angle, he had an uninterrupted view of her creamy cleavage; a sight which he found distracting. Turning his attention from his new bride, Annan felt his gaze returning, not for the first time, to where his brother and Hereswith dined, further down the long table.

  Aethelhere looked unbearably smug these days; although Annan did not blame him.

&
nbsp; Hereswith appeared a goddess today – her tall, lithe frame was sheathed in a silky white gown, and she wore an amber necklace around her slender throat. His brother did not take his gaze of his lovely wife as he ate and drank, and fed her morsels off his plate. What galled Annan was that she appeared to be enjoying the attention. She giggled when he made jokes and blushed prettily when he whispered comments into her ear.

  Realizing that the king was watching her, Hereswith glanced in his direction. Aethelhere was unaware of their connection, as he called to Hilda to refill his cup with mead.

  For an instant, Annan and Hereswith’s gazes fused – and in that moment Annan realized that her apparent enjoyment of his brother’s company was all a ruse. In her eyes he saw her hurt, anger and bitterness. The intensity of her gaze told him all. She still wanted him.

  Is it you she wanted? A voice taunted him. Or was it your title? Hereswith wanted to be queen.

  They broke eye contact, just as Aethelhere turned back to his wife to ask her something, and the moment was lost.

  Annan picked up a piece of roast duck, before placing it back on his plate. Suddenly, he had no appetite. Then, aware that someone was studying him intently, his gaze swiveled to his left.

  Saewara was watching him.

  With a sickening jolt he realized that she had seen his and Hereswith’s gazes meet, and had witnessed the look that passed between them. Her face was impassive, impossible to read, but her gaze was speculative, assessing.

  She was a clever woman, his new bride. She missed nothing. He had told her that he had intended to marry another, and it had not taken her long to realize who the woman was. Saewara held his gaze for a moment more before looking away. Just before she did so, he saw the disdain in her eyes.

  The feasting had ended. Slaves cleared away the food scraps and wiped down the tables. The feasters, full of rich food and drink, lounged about the hall – some still at the long tables, others seated around the crackling fire, conversing in low voices. A lyrist sat in one corner of the great hall, playing a gentle, soothing tune.