Wind Song (The Kingdom 0f Northumbria Book 2) Page 15

  King or not, Ecgfrith of Northumbria was someone she was starting to hate.

  Her mother had thrown away her happiness for him. Lewren had once been young and beautiful, she could have chosen any man and yet she had fallen for one who could never love her in return.

  You should have told me, mōder. I deserved to know.

  Anger curled up through Hea. She felt betrayed … by all of them. Her life, her identity, had been a lie. Suddenly she felt like running away, finding a cave or a hut deep in the forest and living alone, shunning the world and its disappointments.

  Tears pricked at her eyelids, but she blinked them back. Weeping would not help.

  The hillside led up into a gorge; a steep-sided valley that forced the wagons to slow. Emerging from her brooding, Hea took in her surroundings once more, panic gripping her chest when the sense of recognition grew stronger.

  This was it … the valley from her vision. The valley of death.

  “Hea … what’s wrong?” Oswald’s voice caused Hea to start. He was riding at her side, his gaze wary as he studied her face. “You look as if you’re about to faint.”

  Hea wet her dry lips, unable to speak. She glanced ahead at the sea of warriors, their spears bristling against the green sides of the valley.

  A moment later, shouts reached them. They were faint, from much farther up the valley, but Hea instinctively knew what they meant.

  She reined Rowan around, her face panicked as she caught the priest’s eye once more. “We must turn around,” she gasped. “We need to ride … before they—”

  More shouts, this time from behind them, cut Hea off mid-sentence. Both she and Oswald craned their necks, their gazes traveling past the last of the wagons, to see a company of riders burst into the valley.

  “God’s Bones!” The panic in Oswald’s voice mirrored her own.

  Even from a distance, it was clear the approaching horsemen were not Angles. They were dark-haired men with blue swirls decorating their pale skin. Plaid cloaks billowed like wings behind them as they galloped toward the rear of the Northumbrian fyrd.

  Hea glimpsed the glee on their faces, the triumph, and knew a moment of pure terror.

  She had warned Ecgfrith, but he had not listened. The Picts had laid a trap for them … and they had ridden straight into it.

  The valley rang with the clank of iron and the grunts of men. The two armies fought in close combat. The cries of the injured and the dying as they fell—only to be trampled underfoot—echoed off the sides of the gorge.

  Bridei urged Croí Cróga through the crowd, slashing his blade at the men who lunged for him. Likewise the stallion bit, and kicked, at any warrior that ventured too close to his massive feathered hooves.

  Croí Cróga had been bred for battle, and yet Bridei was about to dismount—for it was safer in the confined space—when he spied a warrior on horseback coming for him.

  Ecgfrith of Northumbria was not a big man, but dressed for battle upon the huge, chestnut warhorse he was a magnificent, terrifying sight. He carried a great, round, oaken shield with an iron boss upon it slung across his left arm, and a double-edged sword in his right hand. A heavy iron helmet, with a nose plate and eye-slits, obscured half his face. A fine wolf-pelt cloak billowed behind him as he rode. Sunlight glinted on the chain-mail that covered his chest.

  Bridei saw Ecgfrith’s face, twisted with wrath, his teeth bared, as he came for him.

  Guiding his stallion with his knees, Bridei urged Croí Cróga forward and raised his square shield. The horse surged on, and Bridei braced his body for the shattering impact that would come.

  The two men met in the midst of the valley. Warriors—Pict and Angle alike—dove out of their way.

  Ecgfrith swung first, his blade slicing through the air. Bridei slammed his shield upward, his arm jarring as iron bit into wood. Ecgfrith snarled, drew his seax from his waist, and slashed at his opponent—the sharp blade cutting through the thick leather of Bridei’s breeches, and biting into his thigh.

  Bridei gritted his teeth against the pain and drove his own blade up under Ecgfrith’s guard.

  This blow was the deciding one, for it cut through Ecgfrith’s chainmail vest and slammed home, up under his ribcage.

  The two kings’ gazes met, and Bridei watched Ecgfrith’s hazel eyes widen.

  It was a killing blow, they both knew it.

  Ecgfrith was dead.

  Bridei looked down at the Northumbrian king’s corpse, surprised at how little he felt. He had expected jubilation; a fierce sense of vindication against the man who had once made his life a misery.

  Yet he felt nothing.

  Ecgfrith lay on his back, his eyes staring skyward. He wore a stunned look on his face, as if he had denied death even as it came for him.

  Bridei clenched his jaw. Ecgfrith’s end had been too swift, too painless. He had wanted to see fear in his foe’s eyes before he finished him; he had wanted him to plead, to beg for his life. Yet the Northumbrian king had died a warrior’s death, proving that despite Bridei’s hatred for him, Ecgfrith was no coward. Like many of the kings ruling the southern lands of Britannia, Ecgfrith had been a battlelord.

  Glancing up, Bridei took in his surroundings. The stench of blood and offal assaulted him on all sides, and a carpet of bodies now filled the gorge where the two armies had made their final stand.

  Unbeknown to Ecgfrith, Bridei had a number of warriors in reserve waiting to the north—and when the Picts rode into this valley, their reinforcements joined them.

  They had hit the Northumbrians with a hammer blow, a strike that the Angles had never recovered from. The Picts had held nothing back. This was their chance, the moment Bridei had been waiting for. He had deliberately baited Ecgfrith in the south, and then let him believe he had the stronger army. It had been galling to retreat, to let the Northumbrians believe victory lay within their grasp. But in the end his tactic had paid off.

  Bridei, limping slightly from the cut Ecgfrith had given him to the leg, moved a few yards farther down the valley, to where Heolstor was sitting upon a boulder, recovering from the fight. A tangle of bloodied bodies spread around him; all men Heolstor had cut down at the bitter end of the battle.

  Bridei met his friend’s eye and grimaced. “Was it not hard to kill these men? They were once your brothers.”

  Heolstor snorted. “They ceased to be my brothers years ago. I’m a Pict now.” He then favored Bridei with a fierce grin. “Well met, Lord. You were right, I should have had faith.”

  Bridei barked out a laugh but did not reply. He was too exhausted, too sore, and his leg hurt. Looking down the valley at a sea of bodies with broken standards and spears thrusting skyward, Bridei considered the path that had brought him to this moment.

  My birthright.

  He had done what his father had not—broken from the yoke of Northumbrian rule and freed his people. He was now the rightful king of the north—the Kingdom of Fortriu—and there was no one alive who would dare contest it.

  Bridei’s gaze swept back to where Ecgfrith lay, his wolf-skin cloak, stained dark with his own blood, spread out beneath him. And as Bridei watched, a raven landed on the Northumbrian king’s forehead and plucked out his eye.

  Dusk settled over the Pict camp, painting the sky blood-red. Bridei marked it as he strode toward the edge of the encampment, and allowed himself a rueful smile.

  The Warrior—god of battle—saluted them.

  “How many Northumbrian survivors?” he asked Fearghus.

  “Twenty-five, although some of them won’t last the night,” the warrior, who walked to his right, replied.

  Bridei nodded before he glanced to his left, at where Heolstor strode. “Fancy a Northumbrian slave?”

  The warrior grinned back at him. “Only if he doesn’t eat much.”

  The three of them walked to the edge of the camp, through a wide entrance to where a great low hearth burned. The Northumbrian captives clustered around it; a ragged, bloodied group of men
. Bridei’s warriors had constructed a wood and hide perimeter around the captives, hemming them in. Even so Heolstor had placed men outside, and they would stand guard all night. Just in case a desperate Northumbrian warrior decided to try and make a run for it.

  A warrior should die in battle. That was an honorable death—while capture stripped a man of whatever honor he had once possessed.

  Bridei stopped at the edge of the group, his gaze sweeping over the collection of weary faces. One of the men closest snarled at Bridei, before spitting on the ground. Next to him, a young warrior had gone the color of milk at the sight of the Pict leader, athough his eyes glittered with venom.

  Bridei ignored their hate-filled stares, as he found himself looking for familiar faces. He had lived among the Northumbrians for so long, he had expected to recognize some of the men here. Yet they were all strangers to him.

  All but a huge blond man who lay upon his side. The warrior’s hair was a shade of yellow that Bridei had never seen on anyone but one man. The lump on the warrior’s nose, caused by Bridei’s own fist, confirmed the man’s identity.

  Rinan.

  The warrior did not look in a good state: blood soaked his leather armor and even from this distance, Bridei could see a number of lacerations that marked his right flank and thigh. Rinan was too weak to sit up, yet his pale blue eyes were hard with an unspoken challenge.

  Next to Rinan sat a slim, dark haired man. Dressed in a brown habit with his hair shaped into a tonsure, the man scowled at him. He was trying to brave, but it was a thin veneer. Bridei could smell the fear coming off him in waves.

  Bridei gave a grim smile. Ecgfrith had brought a priest north with his fyrd, but it had not helped him.

  Bridei was going to look away then, to issue an order to Fearghus, but instead he saw something that made him pause. His gaze strayed to a cloaked figure a couple of yards behind Rinan. Sitting hunched, his back leaning up against the perimeter fence, the man was much smaller than those surrounding him—and unlike the others, he wore a large hood, which hid his face from view.

  Bridei frowned. Had they caught a lad?

  “You,” he called out, his voice carrying across the space. “The cloaked one. Lower your hood.”

  Silence fell around the fire. There had been little conversation, just low mutterings and the occasional groan from one of the injured, yet now they all grew tense, their gazes shifting to the cloaked figure in their midst.

  “You heard the king,” Heolstor called out. Besides Bridei, he was the only other man in the Pict army who spoke the tongue of the Angles. “Lower your hood, boy.”

  A few moments followed, before a pair of slender hands lifted and pushed back the hood, revealing a shock of unruly auburn hair, glittering green eyes, pale skin, and a full mouth.

  Bridei’s breath caught.

  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 counselled 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 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-l
imbed ease she remembered. For the first time, she noted the blood stain 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?