Darkest before Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 2) Page 5

  Oswiu and his queen sat at the end of the table. Baby Elflaeda suckled at her mother’s breast, while her older sister, Osthryth, who was entering her third winter, perched on her father’s knee. Alchflaed’s half-brother, Ecgfrith, sat next to Alchfrith and Cyneburh. Ten winters old, the boy was slim and sandy-haired with watchful hazel eyes.

  Watching her father with Osthryth, Alchflaed felt a twinge of jealousy. The smile she had worn on her face since the king’s return faded. She had once been the apple of her father’s eye, but her half-sisters had long since taken her place. She now had twenty winters, and by right should have been wedded with her own children. Her continued presence in her father’s hall galled the queen, and provided a constant reminder of the flame-haired woman Oswiu had once loved.

  Little Osthryth giggled when her father ruffled her blonde hair. He smiled down at his daughter, his eyes shining. Alchflaed looked away, suddenly feeling like an outsider. She had hardly spoken a word to her father since his arrival home – and, since sitting down at the table, he had not looked her way once.

  “So pensive, sister,” Alchfrith’s voice interrupted her brooding. “That’s unlike you.”

  Alchflaed met her brother’s gaze – green like hers – and gave a wry smile. “Aye, I was just reflecting on how things are changing. Life never stays as it was, even if I wish it would.”

  Her brother raised an eyebrow. “Really, why?”

  “We used to be the ones seated next to father at a feast, the ones who shared his victories.”

  Now it was Alchfrith’s turn to smile. “We all have to grow up. Fæder has to let you go.”

  “Let me go?” Alchflaed stiffened. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Alchfrith’s smile turned enigmatic before he took a sip of mead from his cup.

  “Our victory over Mercia alters many things,” he told her. “Change is afoot, and it will affect us all.”

  Alchflaed rose from the table and yawned. The feasting, drinking and reveling had gone on late into the night and she was exhausted. Her eyes stung from the fire pit smoke, and her mind was befuddled by too much cider. Many of the women had already retired for the night, and a number of folk had wrapped themselves in their cloaks and lain down upon the rushes.

  A few folk were still up; a handful of men sat at the tables, drinking and talking, while servants and slaves busily tidied up after the feasting. Queen Eanflaed was sitting with some women, ealdormen’s wives, next to one of the fire pits, although the king was nowhere in sight. It also appeared that her brother and Cyneburh had retired for the night, and Alchflaed decided that she would do the same.

  Alchflaed stifled another yawn and crossed the floor toward her family’s sleeping quarters. She had almost reached her bower, when her brother stepped out from behind the tapestry that hid her parents’ private chamber from view.

  “Alchfrith,” she greeted him with a weary smile. “I thought you’d gone to bed.”

  “Cyneburh retired a while ago,” he replied, not returning the smile. “I’ve been talking to father in private. He wishes to have a word with you.”

  Alchflaed, who had been about to draw back the tapestry to her bower, paused.

  “Now?”

  “Yes – it’s important. Come.”

  A king’s summons was not to be ignored, especially not her father’s, no matter how tired she was. Alchfrith’s serious expression worried her. She followed her brother back into the king and queen’s quarters. At least four times the size of Alchflaed’s tiny bower, this space was much more richly decorated. Thick furs covered the ground and gold-threaded tapestries hung from the walls. A small fire pit lay at the center of the space, and her father sat next to it. He had long since removed his magnificent wolf pelt cloak and finery, and was dressed simply in doeskin breeches and a sleeveless tunic. The firelight played on the sinewy lines of his arms and the sharp angles of his face. Alchflaed crossed the furs toward him.

  “You wished to speak with me, fæder?”

  “Aye – take a seat, daughter.”

  Alchflaed cast a questioning look in her brother’s direction before complying. However, Alchfrith was not looking at her. She sat down upon a stool next to the fire pit and waited for her father to speak – yet, all the while, apprehension fluttered in the pit of her stomach. Had she angered him? He seemed so distant.

  “Our victory over Mercia was a great day for Northumbria,” the king began, staring into the glowing embers of the fire pit. “Finally, we are rid of the Mercian yoke. Once more this kingdom is a force to be reckoned with in Britannia.”

  Alchflaed nodded. This, she knew.

  Her father looked up then, and fixed her with a cool, assessing gaze.

  “Aethelwald is dead. He returned to the fold, on the eve of battle, thinking that I would forgive and forget but I killed him for his treachery. Your brother is now King of Deira.”

  It did not surprise Alchflaed to hear that her cousin was dead; she had heard he sided with Penda months ago, and that was enough to condemn him. To think her blond, forthright cousin had once pursued her made Alchflaed glad she had refused him. Still, her father’s cold admission that he had killed him, unnerved her. She glanced then over her shoulder at Alchfrith, who was watching the proceedings with a hooded gaze.

  “Congratulations, brother.”

  “There is more,” Oswiu’s voice, sharp now, brought her attention back to him. “Aethelwald was not the only one to shift allegiance upon the eve of battle. Penda’s own son changed sides.”

  This news did come as a surprise. She knew that among the high born, blood ties meant little if they stood in the way of power, but for a son to betray his own father was treacherous indeed.

  “Did you accept his allegiance?” she asked.

  “I did.”

  “You bargained with him?”

  Oswiu smiled, although his eyes were hard.

  “Paeda of Mercia is now my puppet, ruling Southern Mercia only in name. He will do my bidding now that I have agreed to let him wed the woman he desires.”

  Alchflaed felt as if she had just plunged head first into the icy North Sea.

  “I beg you, tell me it isn’t so,” she whispered. “Please tell me you did not…”

  Her father said nothing, confirming her worst fears. Alchflaed sat still on the stool, struggling to keep calm although inside she was screaming. She had only ever set eyes on Paeda of Mercia once, and then only briefly. They had not even exchanged a word. He had reminded her of his father, cold and ruthless.

  “You made quite an impression upon him,” the king finally spoke. “It appears he wishes to tame you, to make you his queen.”

  “But I do not wish to marry him,” Alchflaed croaked out the words, her throat suddenly dry.

  Her father shrugged. “That matters not. You will marry whom I say.”

  Alchflaed reeled back. She knew other fathers forced their daughters to marry against their will, it was commonplace amongst the high born, but she had always thought her father different. Ever since her mother’s death, he had favored her, indulged her. Over the years, a number of men had sought her hand, and she had refused them all. Her defiance had enraged her stepmother, but not her father. He had merely laughed at Eanflaed’s anger, and told her that, clearly, the latest rejected suitor was not worthy of his wild daughter.

  “But, you always said you’d let me choose.”

  “I indulged you only because it suited me to do so,” Oswiu replied. “That time has passed. Paeda’s betrayal of his father tipped the balance at Winwaed in our favor. I intend to press our advantage.”

  Panic surged through Alchflaed, making it difficult for her to remain seated. Fatigue and a slight headache from the cider vanished, replaced with ice-cold dread. She swiveled on her stool, fixing her brother in a pleading stare. He was her last ally, the one person she could depend upon.

  “Please, Alchfrith, don’t let him do this.”

  “It is already done,” her brother repli
ed. His tone was emotionless, although Alchflaed thought she saw pity flare in his eyes.

  Suddenly, the enigmatic comment her brother had made during the feast made sense.

  Change is afoot, and it will affect us all.

  He had been trying to warn her. Heart racing, she turned back to her father.

  “Is he here?”

  Mercifully, Oswiu shook his head. “Urgent business drew Paeda back to Tamworth. He has sent a group of his men to escort you to Mercia. You will leave at dawn, the day after my victory feast. As soon as you arrive in Tamworth, you and Paeda shall be handfasted.”

  Alchflaed gripped the sides of the stool, in an effort to stop herself from leaping to her feet and fleeing her father’s quarters.

  Her world had suddenly shattered into tiny fragments. She had foolishly believed she would spend her life at Bebbanburg but, instead, her father had given her to the enemy.

  Chapter Six

  The Victory Feast

  Alchflaed was winding wool onto her distaff, and staring sightlessly into the flames of the fire, when Cyneburh took a seat upon the stool opposite.

  It was getting late in the afternoon, and Alchflaed had been sitting alone at the fire pit for a long while. Around her, the hall bustled with activity as servants and slaves prepared a mutton stew for the evening meal. Yet, she had been deaf to them all.

  “Greetings,” Cyneburh greeted her timidly.

  Alchflaed emerged from her brooding and forced a smile, although it hurt her face to do so.

  “Hello, Cyneburh.”

  Her sister by marriage picked up the tunic she had been embroidering, and was about to resume her intricate work, when she paused.

  “You are so pale today, Alchflaed. Are you unwell?”

  “I think I drank too much cider at the feasting,” Alchflaed lied, although she was unable to summon the energy to do so convincingly. She continued the rhythmic motion of winding wool onto the distaff, readying it for spinning, and hoped Cyneburh would lapse back into silence. The Mercian Princess was mercifully not given to prattle. There were times when the pair of them would sit for an entire afternoon at their work and barely a word would pass between them. However, when she saw out of the corner of her eye that Cyneburh had not yet resumed sewing, she realized that today would be different.

  Cyneburh spoke, her voice gentle and laced with concern.

  “Alchfrith told me that you will marry my brother.”

  Alchflaed nodded, and swallowed to ease the sudden tightness in her throat. She did not trust herself to reply.

  “He said that Paeda demanded the marriage, as payment for betraying our father.”

  Alchflaed glanced up, her gaze meeting Cyneburh’s.

  “Does his treachery surprise you?”

  Cyneburh sighed.

  “My father brought his daughters up to be like their mother. But, he schooled his sons to mirror him.”

  Cyneburh’s pretty mouth compressed into a thin line before she continued.

  “But this time he took it too far.”

  “It takes a rare man to betray his own father.” Alchflaed replied, struggling to keep her voice even.

  “Aye,” Cyneburh’s expression hardened further. “As a boy, Paeda was ever eager to win his father’s approval, even more so than our younger brothers, Wulfhere and Aethelred. At some point though, his adoration turned to resentment. It had begun, long before I left Tamworth, but my father was blind to it.”

  Alchflaed glanced away, her gaze returning to the flames dancing in the fire pit. Cyneburh’s words were making her feel worse, not better.

  Unexpectedly, Cyneburh reached out and placed her hand over Alchflaed’s. Surprised, for it was unlike her brother’s wife to be demonstrative, Alchflaed looked up. Cyneburh’s gaze was fierce.

  “You are strong,” she whispered, “but in my father’s hall, women are seen and not heard. Don’t let my brother break you.”

  ***

  Maric took a seat at the long feasting table and reached for a cup of mead. The sooner he took the edge off this evening the better. He would have preferred to sit next to the other warriors, at one of the tables at the far end of the hall, but Oswiu had insisted that he join the king’s table.

  You are Paeda’s representative in my hall so you will dine with me.

  Still, Maric had made sure he took a seat near the farthest end from the king – the last thing he wanted was to be drawn into conversation.

  As it was, he barely suffered sitting amongst the people who had defeated his. It took all his willpower not to leave the hall and dine on stale bread in the stables. He had no stomach for the rich dishes the servants placed before him: roast boar, venison stew and braised mutton, accompanied by platters of buttered roasted carrot, onions and turnips. An enormous swan, stuffed with chestnuts and apples dominated the king’s table as a centerpiece.

  It was, indeed, a feast to celebrate victory. Fighting discomfort, Maric took a long draught of mead and watched the royal family take their seats.

  Oswiu sat down upon his carved chair, and picked up a golden cup, studded with amber. A servant appeared at the king’s elbow and poured him some mead.

  Alchfrith, the newly made King of Deira took a seat at his father’s right, joined by his winsome Mercian wife. To their right sat a boy who bore a startling resemblance to Oswiu. Maric assumed this was the king’s second son, Ecgfrith. Next to Oswiu, the queen took her seat. She carried a swaddled babe in her arms, and wore a plush ermine stole about her neck. To the queen’s left sat Princess Alchflaed. A little girl, of around three winters in age, perched upon Alchflaed’s knee.

  Maric’s gaze rested upon the princess. Two years had passed since he had seen her last, but Alchflaed was even more striking than he remembered. Truthfully, he had thought little of her after taking his leave of Bebbanburg, for other matters had taken his attention. Watching her now, he had to admit she possessed a wild beauty that drew a man’s eye.

  Alchflaed appeared pale and tense this evening, although it added to, rather than detracted from, her loveliness. Her eyes were a warm green against milky skin. Her hair was unbound; a russet mane that tumbled around her shoulders.

  Unlike the last time Maric had seen her, the princess was dressed in more feminine clothing this evening; in a green sleeveless tunic, made of fine wool. A single bronze arm-ring adorned the bicep of her left arm but she wore no other jewelry.

  Sensing that someone was looking at her, the princess looked up, and her gaze fused with Maric’s. Like the last time they had locked eyes, Maric’s reaction to this woman had surprised him.

  Captivated, he stared at her for a moment longer, drawn in. The heat in her eyes set his veins alight, and when he eventually looked away, he found he was sweating.

  Alchflaed stared at the dark haired warrior seated at the far end of the table. She recognized him – his dark hair was a little longer, his expression harder, but his eyes were that same crystalline blue.

  He was the same warrior who had accompanied Penda to Bebbanburg two years earlier. Just like that brief moment when their gazes had met then, her senses reeled now. The sensation was like a physical blow, just below her sternum. Light headed, her misery temporarily forgotten, Alchflaed returned his stare, transfixed.

  A sense of loss washed over her when he looked away.

  Heart hammering, Alchflaed looked down at the trencher of venison stew, which a servant had just set before her. Unhappiness had robbed her of any appetite today, and now her stomach had closed completely.

  “Alchflaed?”

  She looked up to find the queen frowning at her.

  “Are you ill?”

  “No,” she replied, slightly breathless. “Just weary.”

  On her lap, Osthryth started to wriggle. Her chubby hands reached forward, grasping for the trencher.

  “Are you ready for the journey tomorrow?” Eanflaed asked, not bothering to hide the note of vindictive pleasure in her voice. Clearly, she had seen her step
daughter’s pallor and sought to twist the knife. “I hear you will leave at first light.”

  Alchflaed nodded. She was now struggling to prevent her sister from planting herself headfirst in the trencher, and heartily wished she could hand her back to the queen. However, Eanflaed was nursing Elflaeda; the infant girl clung to her mother’s breast like a suckling wolf cub.

  “This marriage will be good for you,” Eanflaed continued. “It is time you wed. You need calming down.”

  Alchflaed glowered at her stepmother. She did not appreciate being spoken of as if she was an unbroken filly.

  “Even to our people’s enemy?” she replied, biting out the words.

  “You will weave peace, as many women have done before you,” Eanflaed sniffed. “It is an honor and you should be grateful for it.”

  Anger kindled in the pit of Alchflaed’s belly. This woman was unbearably smug. She had Oswiu’s love, and would continue to reside at Bebbanburg while Alchflaed was being sent away from the only home she had ever known.

  Alchflaed drew herself up, her gaze narrowing.

  “I’m not grateful to be promised to a man who betrayed his own father.”

  “That is because you are selfish and spoiled,” the queen hit back, her voice growing shrill.

  “And you are a vain, arrogant woman who knows my father will never love you like he did my mother.”

  Around them, conversation died away and Alchflaed felt everyone turn to stare at her. Now that anger had caught fire in her veins, she found herself not caring if they had an audience. Her father could make her do his bidding; he could sacrifice her without a moment’s regret to the glory of Northumbria, but that did not mean she had to pretend to like it.

  “That is why you are so willing to see me gone,” Alchflaed continued, incensed now. “You would not be reminded of Rhieinmelth and what she and my father shared.”

  Eanflaed struck out, the flat of her hand connecting with Alchflaed’s cheek.