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

  Aidan made his way over to Sigeberht, who was taking a drink from a water bladder. His lord took a few gulps and offered the bladder to his thegn. Aidan took it and quenched his thirst on the lukewarm, stale water, before stoppering it.

  “Must we wait till nightfall?” Aidan asked. “It’s exposed here.”

  “It’s too risky to sail up the river in daylight,” Sigeberht replied. “The Deben is wide but, if my memory serves me, there are scattered villages on its banks. Someone could see us and send word to Ricberht.”

  “How far can we travel upriver?”

  “As far as the Great Barrows of Kings.” Sigeberht’s face grew even sterner than usual as he named the place where East Anglia’s rulers were entombed. “From there ‘tis a two-day journey on foot. It will take us longer for we must travel at night and hide ourselves during the day. We must reach Rendlaesham unseen.”

  Aidan nodded. As much as he wished to move swiftly now that they had entered the Kingdom of the East Angles, he knew that Sigeberht spoke sense. None of them, save Sigeberht, had ever set foot in Britannia before, and they relied upon their lord’s memory to ensure they reached the King’s Hall unnoticed. Their greatest advantage was the element of surprise. If the Usurper discovered their plans, he would gather a fyrd, a King’s army, and make it difficult, if not impossible, for them to defeat him.

  “How does it feel to be home milord?” Aidan asked Sigeberht and was rewarded with a rare, unguarded smile.

  “Better than I can describe.” Sigeberht’s grey eyes were alight as he spoke. “I had no wish to leave these shores and was but a callow youth when Raedwald banished me. My exile has made me the man I am. I will have my vengeance and take back what is rightfully mine – or I will die trying.”

  With that, Sigeberht called to his men and instructed them to hide the longships as best they could and find a place to take cover till nightfall. Sigeberht had told them that this estuary was often used by merchants travelling up-river to Gipeswic and Rendlaesham. As such, it was not wise to remain out in the open.

  ***

  Freya strode through the lime-wood copse, her cheeks still burning. It had been a surreal but humiliating encounter and Freya’s lips still tingled from the stranger’s kiss. Boys had kissed her before; eager fumbles on Mother Night at Yule or at Beltaine spring celebrations, but she had never been kissed by a man.

  An insolent man with no manners or honor.

  Freya glanced over her shoulder, relieved that the churl had not followed her, before she quickened her pace towards home.

  Wild flowers scattered the woods and iridescent swaths of bluebells carpeted either-side of the narrow path. Despite the flush of green and new life around her, spring had been late arriving this year. Even inside the sheltered copse, the wind had an icy bite and Freya pulled her woolen shawl close about her.

  Ahead, Freya glimpsed the low-slung outline of her home through the trees and felt her heart lift. She shared the squat, thatched-roof, wattle and daub cottage with her mother, Cwen. The cottage sat alone in the woods, at the center of a small clearing. They had lived an isolated life here over the past four years. The nearest settlement, Bawdsey, was a morning’s journey on foot, but it was a life they loved.

  Freya reached the cottage and pushed open its wattle door. Inside, she found her mother winding wool onto a distaff; one of Freya’s most hated chores. It reminded her of the afternoon of weaving that awaited her.

  “There you are.” Cwen looked up from her distaff. A small woman with thick brown hair, Cwen’s hazel eyes twinkled as they settled on her daughter. “Surely it doesn’t take that long to collect half a basket of lichen?”

  Freya ignored her mother’s jibe and placed the basket on the work-worn table that sat against one wall. In the center of the cottage, a fire pit glowed welcomingly. Freya hastened over to it and warmed her chilled fingers over the flames.

  “It’s cold by the water but I found plenty of lichen.”

  “I thank you love,” Cwen smiled at her daughter. “I’ve almost run out.”

  “I don’t know what the folk of Bawdsey would do without you. They’ve come to depend on your skills as a healer.”

  “Flattery won’t get you out of your afternoon chores,” Cwen reminded her daughter with an arch smile. “That cloak won’t weave itself.”

  “Yes mōder,” Freya sighed, “just let me get some feeling back into my fingers first.”

  Freya closed her eyes as heat seeped into her hands. Then, her thoughts returned to her encounter on the shore. She thought about telling her mother about the arrogant man who had accosted her, but decided against it. Cwen was suspicious by nature and would be overly alarmed. Two women living alone in the woods had to be careful and Cwen was forever warning Freya about men and how they could not be trusted. Her mother would pepper her with questions and Freya felt an odd reluctance to tell her about the stranger with black hair and piercing blue eyes.

  Opening her own eyes, Freya glanced around the interior of the cottage. Her surroundings were as familiar to her as the back of her hand. It was small and, at times, cramped, but this cottage kept them warm, dry and safe. Freya’s gaze then settled on the small loom that awaited her on the other-side of the fire pit. Feeling that she had delayed long enough, Freya reluctantly stepped away from the fire and went to retrieve it.

  She was just settling herself onto a stool when a man’s voice intruded upon the afternoon’s peace.

  “Wes hāl!”

  Freya went as rigid as a rabbit poised to flee a fox.

  He followed me, she thought in numb disbelief. What in Woden’s name does he want?

  “Open your door in the name of the king!”

  Freya felt a surge of relief, tinged with alarm, when the man’s voice rang out once again. It was not the voice of the stranger she had met on the shore; he had not been a king’s emissary.

  A moment passed before Cwen set aside her distaff and stood up. Wordlessly, Freya also rose to her feet and followed her mother to the door.

  Two men waited outside. They were dressed in leather with bronze and silver arm-rings – warriors. Her father, dead four years now, had been a man such as these. Tall and muscular with a mane of red hair, Aelli of Gipeswic’s arms had sparkled with arm-rings, all tributes to his valor. Yet, courage had not saved his life.

  Cwen greeted the newcomers coldly.

  “What do you want?”

  The men stared back at her, before their gazes slid across to Freya. They were only a couple of years older than her, and they eyed Freya with interest as she stepped up beside her mother.

  “Cwen of Shottisham?”

  Cwen nodded reluctantly.

  “The king commands your presence.” The warrior’s gaze lingered on Freya before he fixed Cwen in a hard stare. “He requires a healer urgently.”

  “If you could tell me what ails him, it would help me know what to bring.” Cwen’s voice had an acerbic edge that made Freya suppress a smile. She loved the way her mother spoke to men. Cwen was so different to some of the fawning women they had known in Rendlaesham.

  “It’s a matter between you and the king,” the warrior replied stubbornly. “Now gather what you need and let us depart.”

  Cwen glared at the man before turning to her daughter.

  “Freya – fill a bag with food while I put some grain out for the hens.”

  Freya nodded and went back inside. She filled a cloth bag with whatever she could find: a loaf of bread baked that morning, a wedge of hard cheese and the remains of a rabbit pie they had planned to eat for supper. Then, Freya pulled on her fur-lined boots, slung the bag across her chest and exchanged her woolen shawl for a thick rabbit-skin cloak.

  When Freya emerged from the house, ready to travel, Cwen was waiting for her with a heavy shawl about her shoulders. In front of her, she grasped a large, deep basket containing her cures. The warriors bristled with impatience. Freya could sense the irritation emanating from them in waves.

&nbs
p; They were not used to waiting for women.

  Following the warriors and Cwen out of the clearing, Freya glanced back at the home she shared with her mother. Like Cwen, she did not like leaving it unattended but, hopefully, they would not be away for more than a few days.

  Chapter Two

  The warriors led the women away from the coast, southwest through the trees, until they reached a narrow forest path. The woods sheltered them from the chill wind but Freya was glad for the comforting weight of her cloak nonetheless; she would need it after nightfall.

  The sun hung low in the sky when they reached the banks of the Deben. A boat, just big enough to hold four people, awaited them in the mud. The incoming tide lapped gently at the stern, guaranteeing the travelers a swift journey up-river.

  Cwen and Freya climbed onboard while the warriors pushed the boat into the swirling water. Moments later, they were away and paddling with the creeping tide inland. Freya sat quietly and watched the bramble clad riverbank slide by. This close to the estuary, the Deben was so wide that the far bank was difficult to make out. A cold wind whipped across the water and made Freya draw her cloak even tighter about herself.

  The two warriors chatted amongst themselves but did not engage the women in conversation. Freya attempted to talk to her mother, only to receive short, terse responses. Cwen appeared distracted and Freya wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that the last time they had travelled upon the Deben, her father had only been dead a matter of days. Freya had been nearing the end of her sixteenth summer when her father went into battle alongside King Raedwald on Uffid Heath. The king won the battle that day but Aelli of Gipeswic died upon the Heath.

  Freya felt her eyes sting with tears at the memory of the last time she had seen her father, smiling and full of brash self-confidence as he kissed his wife goodbye. Her mother’s grief had been almost as difficult to bear as the loss of her beloved father – and for a time Freya had worried her mother would never recover from it. With Aelli dead, their life in Rendlaesham had ended. While King Raedwald celebrated his victory, Cwen had packed up their belongings and moved herself and her daughter far from Rendlaesham and its memories.

  “Mōdor.” Freya reached out and placed her hand on her mother’s arm. “I miss him too.”

  Cwen glanced across at Freya, her eyes shining with tears. “Damn that man.” She attempted a brave smile. “Why is it that even years on I can’t forget him?”

  “Because you loved him.” Freya struggled not to cry as she answered. “And the gods cruelly took him from us.”

  Cwen wiped her eyes, her face hardening as she did so. Freya, without meaning to, had just touched a raw nerve. “The gods are not to blame for Aelli’s death.” Cwen’s voice was laced with iron. “Raedwald was.”

  Dusk had settled and the last vestiges of light were fading from the sky, when the small party arrived at the Great Barrows of Kings.

  The silhouettes of the giant mounds stood out against the indigo sky. Freya felt the skin on the back of her neck prickle at the sight of their majesty. All of the East Anglian kings lay here, including King Raedwald himself.

  The king had died less than a year after her father. Freya remembered catching glimpses of him during her childhood. Tall, blond and imposing, Raedwald had been a leader of men. Indeed, he had led her father to his death. Although she held no anger towards the dead king herself, Freya could understand her mother’s bitterness. Raedwald had led his men into battle in order to settle an old score. If Aelli had died defending the kingdom from an invading army, Cwen might have understood. Aelli had died so that Raedwald could have his reckoning – Cwen had never been able to forgive that.

  On the riverbank, two more warriors stood awaiting them, torches aloft. The men exchanged brusque greetings, as they heaved the boat in to shore. Then, they helped Cwen and Freya disembark. Horses waited nearby, under the shadow of the barrows. The warriors led the women over to them without preamble.

  “The king wants us back by daybreak,” one of the warriors reminded his companions. “We will have to ride through the night.”

  Freya caught the edge of irritation in the man’s voice and wondered what concern of the king’s could be so urgent that they were expected to travel without rest to see him. Due to their isolated life, Freya had heard little of Ricberht; besides that he had killed Raedwald’s son to gain the throne. Judging from the behavior of these warriors, Ricberht the Usurper was not a man to be crossed.

  It had been a long while since Freya had been on a horse and, after a short time, her posterior was aching. It was a chill, windy night and the riders travelled in a tight knot. Freya watched the torches of the two warriors in front of her gutter in the wind. Around them, the darkness was impenetrable- making the journey slow and difficult. The moon had reached the end of its cycle and did not show its friendly face to guide them. The men obviously knew this road well or it would have been perilous to travel on it. Freya could not help but worry about outlaws, and her imagination ran wild as she rode.

  The night crept by slowly. Freya and Cwen did not converse, save the odd word, as they both struggled to keep awake. Fatigue pulled down at Freya and her eyelids grew heavy. Many times she felt sleep almost claim her, before she pulled back from the brink and jolted into wakefulness.

  They rode in silence. No one spoke but Freya wished the men would. The rumble of conversation would have made it easier to stay awake. Eventually, Freya had to keep pinching herself to keep sleep at bay. She was terrified that she would topple off her horse and be trampled by the two following close behind.

  Eventually, a faint glow appeared in the east, heralding the approaching dawn. Freya’s eyes burned; they felt as if they were full of grit. She yawned, rubbed her eyes, and wished they could rest a short while before seeing the king.

  The party rode through flat, green landscape, interspersed with clumps of woodland. It was gentle, lush countryside dominated by a wide sky. The spring had been wet and the bright green of new growth was everywhere. Gradually, the land became more undulating until, nestled in a shallow valley ahead and framed by arable fields to the south and vast orchards to the north, lay Rendlaesham.

  The morning sun warmed Freya’s face as they neared the town. From a distance, Rendlaesham – the home of the King of the East Angles – looked no different to how she remembered it; a carpet of thatched roofs with the golden roof of the Great Hall rising above it all.

  The morning was clear and still. Freya could see smoke rising from the roofs, blending with the silver blue of the lightening sky. Freya’s memories of their life at Rendlaesham were mostly pleasant but, still, she felt a stab of misgiving at the sight of the town’s wattle and daub houses and sturdy wooden perimeter fence. It was a reminder of another life – one that was lost to her.

  It was only when they rode down the last incline towards Rendlaesham that Freya noticed a great change in the town from four years earlier. The patchwork of fields surrounding the town should have been brimming with produce and freshly tilled earth. Yet, the fields that greeted Freya were neglected, rife with weeds and overgrown in places. There were occasional signs of industry, and a few haphazard plots grew spring vegetables, but the general sense of desolation shocked Freya. She glanced across at her mother and saw her own surprise reflected on Cwen’s face. Rendlaesham had prospered under King Raedwald’s rule. They had heard that his son, Eorpwald, had also ruled well.

  Ricberht had only had the throne since mid-winter. How had things deteriorated so quickly?

  As they approached the main gates, Freya’s gaze rested upon a grisly spectacle. A man hung from a gibbet to the right of the gates. He did not look long dead, yet when they neared him Freya caught the putrid odor of decay. She slapped a hand over her mouth as her bile rose. Ravens had picked out his eyes. The man’s purpled face grimaced at the party as they rode by. Freya averted her gaze and wondered what the man had done to merit such punishment.

  Through the gates they went, and th
e neglect that Freya had witnessed in the fields was mirrored within. Refuse littered the dirt streets and the reek of sewage and rotting food hung in the air. Freya swallowed as her stomach roiled, and looked up at the Great Hall. The magnificent timbered building was as beautiful as ever. The morning sun gleamed off its straw-thatch roof, making it appear gilded.

  They rode up to the high fence that ringed the Great Hall and Freya felt apprehension flutter up inside her ribcage. Not for the first time, she wondered what they would find there.

  The small party passed through the gates and into a wide stable yard. Like the town outside, there were signs of neglect here also; piles of stinking dung, buzzing flies and rotting food scraps.

  Freya winced as she slid off her horse. She was so stiff that she wondered, for a moment, if she would be able to climb the stairs up to the Great Hall. Cwen’s face was also taut with pain as she followed two of the warriors towards the stairs; her gait stiff and labored. Freya hobbled after her mother. The stairs seemed to stretch upward for an eternity and she gritted her teeth with each step. She drew in a deep breath of relief on reaching the top step.

  Two guards flanked the great oak doors upon a wide wooden ledge that ran the width of the hall. Upon seeing the two warriors who escorted the women, the guards stepped aside and pulled the doors open.

  Freya stepped inside. Her gaze traveled around the Great Hall’s interior, and she blinked rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the dimness. All the years she had lived in Rendlaesham, she had never before set foot inside the King’s Hall. It was a magnificent building with high rafters, stained black from years of smoke. Unlike the neglect and filth outside, the Great Hall appeared clean and well maintained. Clean rushes covered the floor and heavy tapestries and finely crafted weaponry that gleamed in the firelight – axes, swords and shields – hung from the walls. A huge fire pit dominated the space and a carcass of mutton spit-roasted above it, causing a pall of greasy smoke to hang in the air. The aroma of roasting meat was a welcome relief after the stench of Rendlaesham. Yet, like her mother, Freya’s gaze did not linger on the mutton. Instead, it shifted to the man lounging on the throne at the far end of the cavernous space.