Nightfall till Daybreak (The Kingdom of the East Angles Book 2) (14 page)

Freya’s gaze rested on Aidan then. He was riding a short
distance ahead of her. Whenever she looked upon Aidan these days she could see
the unhappiness that bubbled within him. Sigeberht had given Aidan his freedom
and in return, the young warrior had given him his loyalty. Yet, Aidan had
expected much from his service to the king. He had come to the Kingdom of the
East Angles with dreams, that was clear enough to see, but his relationship
with Sigeberht had turned sour, and with it his hopes of becoming an ealdorman.
Now, as an added insult, Sigeberht had named Ecgric – a man he barely knew – as
co-ruler. That must have stuck in Aidan’s craw like a piece of dry bread, Freya
thought sympathetically. Most would have felt the same in his place.

Aidan was indeed driven, but it appeared to Freya that beyond
his ambitions, he had nothing else. Beneath his easy smiles and cocky manner,
Aidan of Connacht was lost. Inside the warrior still lived the boy who had been
sold into slavery in Gaul.

A boy with no home.

***

They made camp for the night on the edge of a thicket,
shrouded in a wet mist that showed no signs of receding. The men lit a fire and
soon the bitter perfume of wood-smoke laced the air. The evening meal was
similar to the one they had eaten earlier: more griddle bread, this time
accompanied by salted pork and small, sweet onions. One of the warriors
unstoppered a barrel of wine and poured cups for all present, except the two
slaves who drank water.

Aidan ate his meal in silence, staring into the crackling,
hissing fire. Despite that it was not raining heavily, the damp had sunk
through all his layers of clothing. His skin felt clammy and itchy, and he
longed to take a swim in one of the waterways they had passed on the journey
here. They still had another day and a half’s journey before they would make
the upper reaches of the Lark Valley. Beodricesworth lay close to the banks of
the Lark River, where Aidan would be able to bathe.

Upon their arrival it would be a relief to get away from
Sigeberht for a short while. Unlike the old Aidan, the
thegn
who rarely
left his lord’s side, he craved solitude these days.

Don’t tell me I’m turning into a monk
, Aidan thought
wryly.
After everything that would be an irony.

Truthfully, Aidan was still reeling after the king’s decision.
To hand your kingdom over to a man who had neither proved his worth nor earned
your loyalty, so that you could hide away from the world and contemplate your
god was pure self-indulgence. Even thinking on it made Aidan’s stomach cramp
with anger. There was a kingdom to rule. Sigeberht’s people needed him. Their
borders were not safe. Whispers of a growing Mercian threat grew daily and yet
Sigeberht paid them no heed. He lived increasingly in his own world; one where
only the praise of Felix of Burgundy mattered.

Frankly, Aidan was not sure how much more of this he could
take. He knew that he had sworn his loyalty to Sigeberht, but that was in
different circumstances. It did not mean he would follow him blindly forever –
especially if it meant his own ruin.

Aidan’s thoughts were giving him an acid stomach. He took a
sip of wine, which only worsened it, and glanced over at where Freya sat well
back from the fire, under the eaves of an ash. She had wrapped a coarse blanket
around her shoulders to stave off the night’s damp and chill. Her fingers
wrapped around a cup of milk; her green eyes were riveted on the dancing
flames.

Watching her, Aidan felt a constriction in his chest that made
his breathing quicken. She was a beautiful girl; her fine features relaxed in
repose, her damp red curls framing her face. Had his life not been unraveling
before his eyes, he would have enjoyed teasing her, flirting with her. Yet
after Beltaine, he had realized that Freya had a way of stripping him of
self-control. He did not trust himself alone with her. She made him feel
desperate, and in his present circumstances he did not enjoy such a sensation.
He preferred being able to take or leave women.

You’re wrong Lothar, you Frankish oaf
, he thought as
he tore his gaze away from Freya and took a deep draught of mead
. I’m not in
love with her. I’d love to bed her – but that isn’t the same thing.
 

Chapter
Fourteen

Beodricesworth lay in a shallow valley, surrounded by copses
of trees. When she set eyes upon it for the first time, Freya could see why
Sigeberht had chosen this location for his new hall. It was a lovely spot.

They rode into the valley, the sound of birdsong and the
babbling waters of the River Lark, which flowed between two gently sloping
hills, echoing in their ears. Yesterday’s rain had disappeared with the
sunrise, and the sun shone once more.

Ahead, the thatched roof of Freya’s new home peeked out of the
trees. According to Hereric, who had eavesdropped on the warriors’
conversations long after Freya had gone to sleep the night before, there were
two villages nearby: Saxham and Barrow. The first was a short enough walk on
foot, whereas the second was around thrice the distance; they would not be
greatly isolated here.

The riders approached the hall, and Freya could see it was
very different to the king’s magnificent residence in Rendlaesham. In
comparison, Beodricesworth appeared a thatched barn: a long, low-slung
structure with a collection of huts scattered around it. Ahead, Freya could
hear Felix proudly explaining the state of affairs here to the king.

“I have arranged for a number of peasants to move here from
Saxham and Barrow,” he announced. “They wish to aid you to grow a settlement.
The peasants have brought goats, sheep, pigs and chickens with them and,
already, they have started growing vegetables on the land behind the hall.
There should be enough food by harvest to see us through the winter.”

“Very good,” Sigeberht replied. “You’ve done well Felix.”

The party drew to a halt in the open space in front of the
hall. Freya climbed down from the cart and stretched her limbs. It was a relief
to have finally arrived at their destination. Hereric climbed down from the
front of the cart and, together, they began unloading baskets of provisions.
The king and his men entered the hall, while the two slaves brought up the
rear, carrying a wicker basket each.

Inside was quite different to what Freya had expected. The
interior appeared austere compared to the wall hangings, furs and weaponry that
graced the walls in the Great Hall. It was very clean and the fresh
rush-matting crunched underfoot. A fire pit, crackling gently, sat towards the
front of the hall and in the center of the space hung a heavy curtain, blocking
the other half of the space from view. Freya imagined that the king’s quarters
lay beyond the curtain, but when she later brought a basket of the king’s
clothing into the hall, she discovered that his bower was but a small, curtained-off
alcove, set against the wall. The rest of the space was dedicated to an
austerely furnished prayer chamber behind it.

The prayer chamber was impressive. Although the walls of the
hall were made of wood, stone had also been used as decoration here. Much labor
and skill had obviously gone into it. Smooth, round river stones covered the
floor, having been pressed into the soft earth to form a layer of pavers. Stone
plinths skirted the edges of the chamber, on which burned tallow candles, and a
great stone altar rose at the far end. An ornately carved wooden cross perched
atop it.

This was what Sigeberht had given up the magnificence of the
Golden Hall for; this was his dream.

Once Freya and Hereric had finished unloading the cart, the
king sent the boy out to light the clay and turf oven while Freya set about
preparing the evening meal. It was a special occasion and so Sigeberht had
wavered from his usual request for pottage and griddle bread, instead
requesting a rabbit pie.

A brace of rabbits sat on one of the tables, ready to be
gutted and skinned, and Freya got to work without delay. The warriors left the
hall to see to the horses and explore the surrounding area, while Sigeberht and
Felix disappeared behind the curtain to devote themselves to prayer.

For the first time ever, Freya found herself alone inside the
hall of her lord. Glancing about, she reveled in the sudden privacy. Unlike
Rendlaesham’s Great Hall, which always had groups of women sewing, weaving or
at their distaffs, or warriors playing knucklebones by the fire, Sigeberht’s
new home was quiet and still. The responsibility for cooking and cleaning here
would be hers, and no one else’s. Used to hard work, the thought did not worry
Freya overly much. In fact, she found herself enjoying the peace as she made
bread dough, skinned the rabbits and made a suet pastry for the pie. She
flavored the pie’s filling, as her mother used to, with herbs, onions and wild
garlic, before covering it with the crust.

When the pie was ready to be baked, Freya carried it outside,
her arm-muscles protesting from the weight of it. To the left of the hall, she
found the small clay and turf oven. Smoke drifted from the oven’s entrance,
making it resemble a dragon’s lair. Hereric had been toiling over it for a
while, his eyes streaming from the smoke. Freya left the pie with the boy,
warning him that she would do more than clip his ear if he let it burn. She
then returned to the hall, where she kneaded the loaves of bread that would go
in to bake later.

The men would need some vegetables to go with their rabbit
pie, so Freya took a large basket and made her way back outside. The aroma of
baking pastry greeted her when she ducked out of the doorway. Hereric waved to
Freya, assuring her that the precious pie was cooking nicely.

“I’m going to collect some vegetables from the fields,” Freya
called to him. “I shall be back shortly if anyone needs me.”

Humming softly to herself, Freya walked around the edge of the
hall and down a slope to where two neatly tended fields ran down to a row of
willow trees and the banks of the Lark River. There were few people about, just
an elderly man and women who were weeding at the end closest to the hall.

“
Wes hāl!
” Freya called to them. “I need some
vegetables for the king’s dinner. What’s ready to be picked?”

“There are some cabbages that need eating.” The elderly man
straightened up and motioned to the end nearest the river. “And a few sweet
carrots too.”

Thanking them, Freya set off down the field. She enjoyed the
feel of the sun on her face; although there was a slight crispness to the air
that warned that autumn was approaching. She reached the end of the garden, put
down her basket and set about choosing two cabbages for the evening meal. Freya
pulled up a large bunch of purple and red carrots and was dusting the soil off
her hands, when she heard the splash of water in the river behind her.

She turned and peered through the curtain of draping willow. Where
had that noise come from?

At first she saw nothing, but when she stepped closer to the
bank and pulled aside a branch so that she could see better, Freya realized
what it was that had been splashing about in the river.

Her breath caught in her throat and she froze, staring through
the gap in the foliage.

A strikingly beautiful man was bathing in the river.

She watched, transfixed, as the man stood up. He had a
warrior’s body. His back was to her and the water streamed down the muscular
planes of his shoulders, back and buttocks. He was naked save for his arm
rings, one on his left arm and two on his right, bronze and gold – gifts from
his lord for his valor. Then, oblivious to his audience, the man dove into the
water once more, disappearing under its eddying surface for some time.

Freya swallowed and let out the breath she had been holding.
She should move away before he saw her but still she lingered, waiting for him
to resurface.

When he did, he was facing her this time. Freya sucked her
breath in once more as her gaze raked down the hard, masculine lines of his
body.

It was Aidan. The sight of him, his skin glistening in the
afternoon sun, made Freya’s limbs melt. She felt breathless, as if she had been
running.

Unaware that he was being watched, Aidan flicked his wet, dark
hair off his face and began to wade towards the bank.

It was then that he saw her. He stopped, mid-step, their gazes
meeting.

Unlike if their positions had been reversed, there was no
embarrassment in his eyes. Aidan returned her stare; his face unreadable.
Moments passed before he slowly smiled. It was a sensual, knowing smile – a
dangerous smile. The same one he had given her when he had caught her staring
at him by the water trough.

Mortified, Freya ripped her gaze away and stumbled back from
the river bank. Would she ever learn? Woden save her, he was beautiful to look
upon. Just the sight of his nakedness made her senses reel- made her itch to
touch him. The worst of it was that the arrogant churl knew it.

Freya hurried back to her basket, scooped it up and strode
back up to the hall, her face flaming.

Aidan watched Freya flee back up the narrow strip of grass
between the vegetable beds. Her back was rigid and her shoulders hunched in her
mortification. Aidan’s smile faded and he sighed.

He was tired of this game.

The naked lust on her face as she had watched him told him
everything he needed to know. Despite her rejection of him at Beltaine – one
that he had invited – Freya wanted him as badly as he did her. He had tried to
keep his distance, to pretend she did not matter but the truth of it was that
she was never far from his thoughts. He knew that his distant manner and
coldness, after his charm and smiles, had confused her. Initially, he had
thought she would welcome it but the look on her face just now told an
altogether different story.

Aidan waded to the bank and retrieved a scratchy blanket that
he had hung over a willow branch.

She is the only beacon of light in your life since
you set foot in Britannia
, he reminded himself as he climbed out of the
water and began to dry himself off.
Perhaps it’s time you treated her with
the respect she deserves.

***

That evening, Sigeberht, Felix and the king’s men dined on
rabbit pie accompanied by boiled cabbage and carrots that had been tossed in
butter and sweetened with a little honey.

Freya nervously cut wedges of pie and served them to the king
and his companions on wooden plates. Hereric filled the men’s cups with mead
before the two slaves stepped back and allowed the men to enjoy their meal.

“It smells good,” Hereric whispered to Freya, his eyes huge on
his thin face. “Will there be enough for us?”

Hereric’s impish expression made Freya smile.

“We’ll have to see. It depends on how hungry the men are.”

Sigeberht took a mouthful of pie, before giving a grunt and a
nod that the food was to his liking. He did not look in Freya’s direction, or
acknowledge her in any way; nevertheless Sigeberht’s reaction pleased her. He
usually paid little attention to food. This was the most noticeable reaction
her cooking had ever roused in him.

Aidan, on the other hand, took his first bite and chewed
carefully, pleasure suffusing his face. Freya had noticed how the unrelenting
diet of pottage, gruel and boiled vegetables at Rendlaesham had made him screw
his face up on more than one occasion. This fare was far more to his liking and
the delight on his face was evident. He took another mouthful. Then, he
straightened up and looked straight at Freya.

Once again, he had caught her watching him.

He smiled then – not the smile when she had caught him bathing
in the river – that had made her body go both hot and cold, and had caused her
mind to whirl in confusion. This was a warm smile, one of thanks.

Then, Aidan winked at her before returning to his meal.

Freya looked down at the rush-matting, her face flushing.

Aidan knocked her off balance. First his flirting, then his
dismissal, followed by warmth; it was impossible to know how he would react. He
may not be the king’s slave but the events of the past summer were changing
him.

Freya wondered what kind of man he would be by the time Yule
arrived.