Wind Song (The Kingdom 0f Northumbria Book 2) Read online

  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 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.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Return to Dundurn

  Hea shifted on the sack of grain, easing the cramp in her left thigh and the numbness in her backside. After long days of travel, she was beginning to loathe the rickety cart upon which she traveled.

  Her faithful pony, Rowan, now belonged to one of the Pict warriors. She had trudged along behind the wagons for the first few days, until her feet grew sore, although now she regretted opting for the wagon.

  It had been a relief initially, but days on she had never been so physically uncomfortable.

  Rinan sat opposite her, back propped up against the slatted wooden side of the wagon. His eyes were closed, hi
s face pinched in discomfort. However, he was one of the more fortunate among the injured—over the last few days they had lost six men, all of whom had died from their wounds. Rinan bore many lacerations down his right-side, but none had festered.

  Rinan did not seem to care. His mood had turned morose, and he snarled at anyone who spoke to him. Not that Hea bothered with him—her own mood was bleak enough as it was without him darkening it.

  Since their departure from Nechtansmere, she had barely seen Bridei, and had not spoken to him. Each evening, one of his men came to find her, and escorted her to his tent, where she found food and drink waiting for her. But Bridei never showed his face, clearly sleeping elsewhere.

  The situation made Hea feel uneasy. At first, his absence in the tent had come as a relief, for things had been so awkward between them after the battle. But as the days wore on she found herself worrying over it. Their conversation in his tent that night had been tense, full of things unsaid … perhaps Bridei was sore over it. Maybe he was playing with her.

  He rode at the head of his army now, and Hea had only caught a glimpse of him at dawn that morning as he saddled his stallion—a massive, bay beast with hooves the size of iron griddles. Bridei had turned, catching her watching him, before favoring her with a cocky grin. Then he had turned away and resumed saddling his horse.

  The frequency at which Hea’s thoughts returned to him, made her angry at herself.

  What does it matter to you? Best he leaves you be … best you never speak again.

  But she could not ignore the twist of grief deep within her as the last of her hopes frayed and snapped, casting her adrift in a sea of desolation. Deep inside she was still that pitiful waif of a girl who had followed Bridei around the streets of Bebbanburg. Even now, after everything she had been through, he still had a hold on her.

  Loneliness cast its net over Hea when she considered her fate, turning the days dim and the wind cold. She was fast reaching the point where she did not care what happened to her. She only wished for the end to come swiftly.

  The cart hit a pot-hole and jolted, dislodging Hea from her perch and launching her onto Rinan’s lap.

  Rudely awakened, the warrior gave a yelp as Hea scrambled off him.

  “Devil’s turds,” he wheezed, his eyes watering with pain. “You kneed me in the cods.”

  Hea gritted her teeth and clambered back onto the sack. She could not bring herself to apologize, for she had not deliberately injured him. Plus … he deserved it. “It’s the road,” she muttered. “It’s badly rutted.”

  Rinan glowered at her a moment before pulling himself up so that he could survey their surroundings. They followed the tail-end of the vast Pict army, which snaked like a great crawling beast through a verdant valley. Wildflowers and heather bloomed on the hillsides, and the sky was robin’s egg blue. The sun was hot on their faces, cooled by soft breeze that blew in from the south-east.

  It was a beautiful early summer’s day, yet the glory of it appeared lost upon Rinan. His scowl deepened. “Where are we?”

  Hea shrugged. “I have no idea … they tell me no more than you.”

  Rinan’s pale-blue gaze shifted to her. “You expect me to believe that?”

  Hea held his gaze, her irritation rising. “Believe what you want. I have nothing to tell you.”

  Rinan’s mouth thinned. “Prickly today, wicce. What’s wrong … vexed your lover is ignoring you?”

  Hea resisted the urge to throw herself at Rinan and rake her nails down his face. Was it so obvious? Was she that transparent that even a clod-headed dolt like Rinan could see it?

  Like Ecgfrith, Rinan must also have known of her brief affair with Bridei during his stay in Bebbanburg. She should not have been surprised—the fort was small enough that few things went unnoticed. Even so, the smug look on Rinan’s face caused her temper to flare.

  “What happened between Bridei and me is over with,” she replied, biting the words out. “He’s now my enemy, as much as he is yours.”

  Rinan huffed out a laugh, wincing as the healing wounds on his chest hurt him. “If you say so … although your words sound hollow to me.”

  Hea swallowed a bitter response. She wanted to rage at him, curse him. Only, such an outburst would draw attention to her … would prove him right.

  A sight on the southern horizon drew Hea’s attention then—a welcome distraction from Rinan. Stiffening, she turned to look.

  A vast hilltop fort hove into view. Five tiers cut into a green, domed hillside, ringed by grey stone. The Pict fort climbed the hillside, crowned at the top by a great stone building that resembled a beehive.

  Seeing her attention shift, Rinan twisted round, his gaze travelling west to the fort. “So this is the fabled Dundurn.” His words were bitter, but Hea caught the awe in his voice nonetheless. Like her, the grandeur of Bridei’s stronghold surprised him.

  “Aye,” she whispered, her voice catching. “Our new home.”

  On the way in, Hea caught sight of rows of stone cairns carpeting a nearby hillside. The army did not stop at the burial mounds, instead making straight for the fort.

  The procession snaked around the base of the hill, and along the banks of a glittering burn, before men and horses clattered across the bridge leading into the fort’s lowest level. A deep ditch filled with iron spikes ringed the outer defenses, a sight which made Hea tense.

  Bridei lived as a man under siege.

  Clinging to the sides of the wagon, and gritting her teeth against each bone-shuddering jolt, Hea took in her surroundings.

  Crowds of folk came out to welcome Bridei and his men home. Cries echoed out across the hillside. Hea watched, fascinated. The Picts were predominantly dark-haired. They were not as tall as her own folk, and many were of a lighter build. The men wore little, save plaid or leather breeches, and the women wore long, swishing plaid skirts and tightly laced leather tunics. Hea noticed some of the women wore nothing more than a strip of leather across their breasts, exposing their midriffs.

  Hea knew she was staring but she did not care; likewise, the Picts stared back. She and Rinan were the enemy—but the sight of her bright, untamed mane, and his shock of straw-colored hair momentarily overrode any hostility the folk of Dundurn might feel toward them. Hea knew Heolstor lived among them, but few of them had seen a man with yellow hair before.

  The children chattered and pointed before their mothers shushed them. They need not have bothered, for Hea did not understand a word. They spoke a lyrical, lilting language that was pleasing on the ear. It made Hea’s own tongue sound guttural and grating in comparison.

  Next to Hea, Rinan sank back down in the wagon, his expression morose. “Savages,” he muttered. “The devil take them all.”

  Hea ignored him. Instead, she clung to the side of the wagon as it began its bumpy ascent up through the levels. The road wound its way up the hill, passing low stone houses with conical roofs of turf or thatch. The dwellings were so low to the ground that Hea realized they must be dug out of the earth—a wise choice for the winters would be bitter this far north. Other smaller buildings with conical roofs—most likely store houses—scattered the terraces, interspersed by wooden enclosures where goats bleated and fowl scratched for grain.

  Up and up they went, each level filled with livestock, vegetable plots, and homes, until they rumbled up the final incline toward the fort itself.

  Hea craned her neck, taking in the solid round-tower. It was windowless, although smoke drifted from two points in its roof. This close, Bridei’s fortress appeared huge; bigger even than the Great Tower of Bebbanburg.

  Crowds of folk waited for them here, and amongst the cries of joy at their return, Hea heard wails of grief—as some of the women discovered that their man had been among the fallen.

  Hea’s throat constricted at the mournful sound. That was the nature of war, for even victory was bittersweet.

  A tall, stone wall loomed before them, the tallest of any they had encountered so far. Up
on it, Hea spied the outlines of men, watching their approach. Her chest tightened, and she looked down. The journey west had seemed endless at times; long hard days of travel where she had spoken to no one. Guilt had consumed her for most of it, and she had cut herself off from her surroundings as she went over the events of the past few months.

  How could my vision be so wrong?

  To think she had agonized over Bridei’s fate, when he had never been in any danger. All this time, it had been Ecgfrith who had been riding to his doom.

  But now they had reached their destination, none of that mattered. Hea had her own future to worry about.

  One way or another, her fate would soon be decided.

  Bridei rode under the great arch, Croí Cróga’s huge hooves clattering on the wooden bridge, and glanced up at his broch rising like a giant before him. A smile spread across Bridei’s face.

  It was good to be home.

  He glanced across at where Heolstor rode next to him and saw his friend was also smiling, his blue eyes scanning the crowd that poured out of the broch to meet them.

  Heolstor had good reason for his high spirits, for Ciara would be waiting for him.

  The woman flew down the steps from the broch and launched herself across the yard toward her husband. Heolstor was ready for her. He swung down from his horse, caught her in his arms, and kissed her soundly. Hoots, lewd shouts, and whistles echoed around them, but the lovers paid them no heed.

  Bridei grinned. Heolstor had a knack for the dramatic.

  Turning away from the couple, Bridei dismounted Croí Cróga and led him toward the stable complex at the base of the broch. He felt bone-weary this afternoon and thirsted for a cool cup of ale before stretching out on the furs. It was as if all the tension of the past few weeks suddenly poured out of him.