The Deepening Night (The Kingdom of the East Angles Book 3) Page 7

  “Do you have everything?” Cyneswide asked, still fussing over her sister-in-law. Despite that her face was serene, Saewara noted the anxiety in her sister-in-law’s voice. The two women were friends, and even though Saewara was relieved to be leaving her brother’s malevolent presence, she knew she would miss Cyneswide.

  “I think so,” Saewara replied, pulling the drawstring at the top of the bag closed. “Although I’m sure even if I’ve forgotten something it won’t matter. I shall be a queen too soon, remember?”

  Her bitterness was palpable and Saewara saw Cyneswide wince.

  “It will not be so terrible,” she replied in a low voice, aware that Penda was now waiting near the doors, ready to escort his sister out to her betrothed. “Annan does not seem unkind – and he is handsome…” Cyneswide’s voice trailed off when she saw Saewara’s look of disdain. The Queen’s eyes filled with tears and she stepped forward, clasping Saewara to her in a hug.

  “I’m sorry, Saewara,” she whispered in her ear. “Words will not put this right. Yet, I wish you well. I wish that happiness will find you.”

  Saewara nodded, softening toward her sister-in-law. This was not Cyneswide’s fault. It was unfair to take out her bitterness on the one woman here who had befriended her.

  “Saewara!” Penda’s voice echoed across the hall, quietening the rumble of voices. “I am waiting – come!”

  Saewara picked up her bag and made her way across the crowded floor to where Penda stood before the oaken doors.

  “My wife has kindly gifted you one of her slaves.” He motioned to a brown-haired girl dressed in a shapeless, homespun tunic and a woolen traveling cloak, who stood next to him. “She will serve you on the journey to your new home, and at Rendlaesham. Give her your bag.”

  The girl took the bag and met Saewara’s gaze blankly. Saewara recognized her; the girl’s name was Oswyn and she had been taken as a slave three winters earlier after Penda razed her village on the Welsh border and slew all her kin. The girl had been a ghostly presence within Penda’s hall; a slave who bore her master a quiet, simmering hate. She masked it with a blank stare but Saewara could see the loathing in her eyes.

  Saewara stared back at Oswyn for a few moments, reflecting on the fact that there were those far worse off than her, before turning her attention back to her brother.

  “Very well,” she said coldly, meeting his hard stare. “Let us be on our way.”

  Saewara stepped out into a mild morning, although the air was heavy and the sky a little cloudy. The East Angles awaited her; a grim mob on horseback in the yard before the Great Tower. Amongst them rode one of Penda’s warriors, a surly young man who would bring word of the couple’s handfasting back to Tamworth.

  Annan sat at the head of the group, his expression shielded by the intimidating iron helmet he wore. Sitting there, towering over her as she made her way over to the shaggy bay pony that awaited her, he appeared incredibly intimidating.

  Wordlessly, Saewara mounted the pony, while Oswyn clambered up on the back of the wagon that carried supplies.

  “Goodbye, Annan of the East Angles.” Penda stepped forward and looked up at Annan’s iron-shielded face. “And remember. You are bound to me now. You will do as I tell you.”

  Annan sat motionless and did not respond to the Mercian King. Yet, Saewara could see the tension in his shoulders. She could feel the rage emanating from him. Penda treated him like his dog. The smirks on the Mercian warriors’ faces, as they looked on from behind their king, only added to the humiliation. The faces of the others in the East Angle party were thunderous.

  You go too far brother, Saewara thought with a shiver. One day you will bring hate down upon our people.

  Annan turned from Penda then and urged his stallion into a brisk trot. He sat deep in the saddle, the iron rings on his vest jingling as he led the way out of the yard and into the streets below.

  Saewara did not farewell her brother. Instead, she turned her own mount and followed Annan, urging her pony into a jolting canter in order to keep up with him. They navigated the streets of Tamworth, ignoring the hostile looks and jeers of the townsfolk. Saewara closed her eyes as she felt something wet splatter against her skirts. Folk could be so cruel, she reflected. The people of Tamworth cared not that she was marrying to forge a political alliance – to them she was simply marrying the ‘enemy’. To them, she was betraying her people.

  I’d better get used to this, she told herself grimly, for I will be treated far worse in Rendlaesham.

  They travelled east across green, rolling hills and through the dark woodlands of Mercia. The East Angles set a fast pace, eager to return to their own realm. They spoke little amongst themselves as they rode, and, judging from their scowling faces, were not in the mood for celebration or joviality. Penda’s emissary rode at the back, ignored by all. Annan rode at the head of the column, his back ramrod straight.

  He spoke to no one all morning.

  Saewara soon tired of attempting to keep up with her betrothed. Her pony would be exhausted by the day’s end if she tried to match the pace of Annan’s stallion. Instead, she dropped back so that she rode alongside the wagon. However, Oswyn’s surly face and cold gaze did not make for pleasant company.

  They spent the rest of the day riding through bucolic landscape; wooded valleys and meadows strewn with spring flowers. It was lovely countryside but the East Angles did not appear to appreciate its beauty. They would not relax until they were no longer riding on Mercian soil.

  That evening, they camped in the middle of a wide meadow, not far from a gently babbling brook. It was a mild night, but the men lit fires nonetheless. Annan and his warriors sat around the fire, deep in conversation. Their voices were hushed, as if they were taking care not to be overheard. Realizing she was not welcome at the fire side, Saewara retired to her tent, which she shared with Oswyn. The tent was made of tanned goat-hide and had a slit in the roof to allow the smoke out. Inside, the slave girl resolutely ignored her mistress, except to do her bidding when ordered. She was little company and Saewara wished she could have the tent to herself. Oswyn’s surly face did little to lift her spirits.

  The fresh air and a day in the saddle had exhausted Saewara. She sat, watching the glowing embers of the small fire pit in the center of her tent as she finished a light supper of bread and cheese; feeling her eyelids grow heavier by the moment. She had not thought that she would sleep well that night, but she was wrong. Saewara fell asleep next to the fire and did not awake until first light, when the noises of the men packing up camp roused her.

  They continued east with the dawn. Unlike the day before, the sun did not show its face. The morning passed swiftly, and as they rode east, the weather gradually worsened. By the time they stopped at noon, the sky was completely overcast and the air had turned chill. Saewara took a bite of bread and cheese and glanced up at the sky. It looked to her as if their journey was about to turn damp.

  The men ignored her while they ate a brief meal and took swigs of water from their water bladders. They discussed the journey ahead in low voices, although Saewara heard them mention that they would not likely cross the border into the Kingdom of the East Angles until the following morning. They would remain on Mercian soil for a while longer, it seemed. Saewara could see that this chafed them; every moment they remained in Penda’s kingdom was a reminder of their subjugation. None of them looked her way, preferring to pretend she did not exist. Strangely, Saewara found the anonymity a relief. She had been the center of attention over the last few days, and had hated every moment.

  It was starting to spit with rain when they resumed their journey. Shortly after, they left the hills behind and entered thick woodland. Saewara had heard of these woods and knew that they stretched for leagues in every direction. Once they emerged from them, the East Angles would be in their own kingdom once more.

  Despite the worsening weather, the mood of Saewara’s companions gradually improved as the day wore on. She hung back with the
wagon, while ahead the rumble of men’s voices drifted through the trees. Around them, the rain fell gently in a fine veil; coating the woodland without stirring so much as a leaf or a blade of grass. A narrow road, barely more than a faint track in places, led through the woods. Saewara noticed that the warriors kept a close eye on their surroundings as they rode. Woodland was a favorite spot for outlaws to pounce on unwary travelers. A king and his entourage, heavily armed and prepared, were an unlikely target but, despite this, the warriors were alert and watchful.

  At dusk, they made camp in a small clearing not far from the road. A misty rain continued to fall as the warriors erected three tents; one for Annan, one for his betrothed, and one for Saba and a few of the other warriors who were not taking their turn to watch over the camp.

  They lit a fire pit in Saewara’s tent and carried in furs for her to sleep on, while Oswyn busied herself with making a pot of soup over the fire. Outside, Saewara could hear the men conversing in low voices as they cooked their evening meal over a large fire pit. Once again, she had the feeling they were deliberately keeping their voices quiet.

  Saewara cared not for their conversation; instead, she was glad to be able to spend the evening in private. She hung up her and Oswyn’s sodden cloaks to dry near the fire. She then sat down on the furs and watched the slave girl add a sprig of thyme to the onion soup she was preparing. Observing the girl’s taut face and dead eyes, Saewara felt a pang of sadness. The iron slave collar about her neck was a constant reminder of her status, of her servitude.

  Is there a woman alive who is not a slave? Saewara wondered sadly. If we’re not bound to our fathers, brothers or husbands, we are shackled to our masters. A woman has no will of her own.

  Saewara did not share her thoughts with Oswyn. The girl had made it clear that she had no interest in conversing with her mistress. She was polite and respectful when spoken to, but her eyes told another story.

  ***

  Outside, just yards from the East Angles’ camp, five hostile gazes watched the travelers make camp for the night. Hidden in the undergrowth, and lying as still as possible, the five men breathed slowly and bided their time.

  The one who led this group, shifted his weight slightly to ease a cramp in his leg. He did not see why Coenwal could not have joined them.

  After all, it was he who wanted the woman.

  The others could not have cared less about her. Instead, Coenwal was sitting in front of a warm fire, waiting for them to deliver his prize, while the rest of them suffered on his behalf.

  The outlaw’s gaze rested on the tent nearest their hiding place. He had seen Saewara and her slave girl enter it a short while earlier. His gaze shifted then, to the two other tents nearby. It was a cramped clearing and when they moved from their hiding place, they would need to work quickly and quietly.

  It was a long, cold miserable wait, but in many ways the perfect weather for an abduction. Only those watching the camp would bother to linger outside once the night drew out. It was then that they would make their move.

  The outlaw’s chilled fingers flexed around the bone hilt of the knife he clasped. Although he and his companions had hidden themselves well, he was cautious. He blinked rain out of his eyes and continued his vigil on the camp before him, watching as a tall, blond man of regal bearing strode toward one of the tents, after helping the others see to the horses.

  King Annan of the East Angles.

  After tonight, he would have to find himself another bride.

  The soup was good and Saewara sat with her fingers clasped around her clay bowl, enjoying the warmth. For the first time in a long while, she felt a sense of well-being seep over her. She knew it would not last, this precious solitude. This was what she had been seeking at Bonehill – a quiet refuge to spend the rest of her days in. Yet, the chaos of a king’s hall would not have this peace.

  Saewara let go of her bowl with one hand and placed it over the wooden crucifix she wore under her thick tunic and over-dress. More than ever, she needed her faith, her strength. Not for the first time, she wondered what the famed ‘Golden Hall’ would be like, and just how unwelcoming the folk there would be.

  “Oswyn,” Saewara said gently upon noticing that the slave was now standing woodenly next to the fire pit, awaiting orders from her mistress. “Take some soup for yourself and sit down.”

  Oswyn nodded and did as she was bid. There was no gratitude on her face, just relief at being able to rest and eat. Saewara sipped meditatively at her soup before fishing out chunks of onion with pieces of griddle bread, and popping them into her mouth. It was the first time she had enjoyed food in days. Outside, she could not hear the rain, for it fell in a silent curtain; only the rise and fall of men’s voices punctured the stillness.

  The fire warmed the small tent quickly and, despite the smoke that hung in a pall over them, the women soon relaxed.

  “The soup is delicious,” Saewara said as she helped herself to another ladle. “My onion soup never ends up like this. They are always too watery.”

  “You need to cook the onions until they’re soft before adding the water,” Oswyn replied quietly. “That’s the trick to a good onion soup.”

  Surprised that the girl had actually responded, Saewara gave her a smile. “Thank you, I will try that next time.”

  Oswyn nodded and looked down at her bowl.

  Not wanting to press the girl further, Saewara lapsed back into silence. She was comfortable with remaining quiet, having never been a woman given to prattle. Yet, their brief exchange had warmed the atmosphere between Saewara and her servant a little.

  Perhaps she will grow to trust me, Saewara thought, stretching out her chilled feet toward the fire and wiggling her bare toes in the warmth. I will need someone on my side in Rendlaesham.

  The evening drew out and Saewara did not bother to emerge from her tent. She knew her presence was not welcomed. The men, Annan especially, would not want to see her face till morning.

  After a long day of travel, Saewara felt fatigue pulling down at her. While Oswyn cleared away the dinner and took the pot and bowls outside to wash, Saewara readied herself for bed. Noticing that no bed had been made up for Oswyn, who would be expected to sleep on the ground next to the fire, Saewara took one of her furs and laid it down on the ground next to Oswyn’s side of the fire pit. When the slave girl returned from washing up, her gaze widened to see a soft fur bed waiting for her.

  “M’lady,” she began, looking discomforted. “You can’t give me a fur to sleep on, it’s not…”

  “Of course I can,” Saewara interrupted briskly. “I have plenty of furs – I can afford to share one.”

  “But, I’m your slave.”

  “No, you were my brother’s slave,” Saewara corrected her, “but he’s not here. God willing, we’ll never set eyes on him again.”

  Oswyn looked shocked at that but Saewara merely shook her head and motioned to Oswyn’s new bed. “No one’s going to bother us here. I suggest you take what comfort you can before we arrive in Rendlaesham.”

  The girl nodded reluctantly before making her way over to the bed Saewara had made up and sitting down on it. She gave her mistress a nonplussed look before stretching out. The expression on her face was almost comical but Saewara was careful not to show any sign of amusement. Trust was a fragile thing; hard won and easily shattered.

  The women did not speak again. Instead, they lay on their fur beds, listening to the sounds of the surrounding camp and the crack and pop of the dying fire. Despite that she was exhausted, and that her bed was comfortable and warm, Saewara found herself staring up at the tent’s weather-stained ceiling for a long while. Eventually, when she did sleep, her slumber was fitful and filled with dark dreams.

  ***

  The sound of ripping leather tore Saewara from a frightening dream, in which she had been running from her brother through the empty streets of Tamworth. Penda had almost reached her; his cruel threats ringing in her ears, his hands reaching ou
t to grasp her around the neck, when the noise woke her.

  Saewara sat up in bed, disoriented and still half asleep, and tried to make sense of what was happening around her.

  The fire pit gave out a faint glow from its embers; just enough for her to see a man’s dark outline push his way into the tent through the rip he had just slashed in its side.

  Terror stilled Saewara’s breathing for a moment.

  An intruder was in her tent.

  She drew air into her lungs to scream a warning but the man was suddenly hurtling toward her. He landed on top of her on the furs, a huge hand clamping down on her mouth. She saw then, the outline of another man lurching through the gap in the tent, and the glint of a knife blade. She struggled viciously, trying to get free so she could warn the girl, but the man grabbed Oswyn, who had just awoken and was struggling to her feet. The slave let out a strangled cry that was cut off as the knife slashed down.

  Oswyn crumpled to the ground.

  The man dragged Saewara toward the opening. She writhed and twisted in his grip. When his hand shifted slightly across her mouth, she bit down hard on one of his fingers.

  The man grunted and backhanded her across the face. Then, he slammed his hand back down over her mouth, so hard her lips crushed against her teeth. Tears of pain streamed down Saewara’s face but she continued to struggle. Paying her no heed, for the man was easily twice her size, her assailant pulled her toward the rip in the tent, and out into the night.

  Chapter Eight

  The Reckoning

  “Annan, wake up!”

  Saba’s voice roused Annan from a deep sleep. He struggled upright in bed and met his friend’s gaze. Saba stood at the tent’s entrance, dripping water on to the ground.

  “What is it?” Annan demanded, the remnants of sleep fading as he saw the alarm on Saba’s face.