Nightfall till Daybreak (The Kingdom of the East Angles Book 2) (24 page)

Epilogue

Six months later…

“Freya, it’s done! He’s finished it. Go and see!”

Freya straightened up from retrieving the last warm egg from
the hen house and glanced over at where Hereric was almost hopping up and down
with excitement at the foot of the garden.

“He can’t have finished it yet. He still had the door to put
on and a wall to finish this morning.”

“He has. Go and see!”

“Very well.” Freya approached the boy, ruffled his hair and
handed him the basket of eggs. “Here, take these to Cwen. If you help her with
the baking, she might cook you some eggs.”

Freya made her way out from behind her mother’s cottage and
down the path to the edge of the clearing. There, another, newer, dwelling
stood basking in the noon sun. Aidan had forbidden her from visiting him during
the final stages of building, having insisted that it should be a surprise.

This was their new home. Tomorrow, they would have their handfast
ceremony in nearby Bawdsey. From tomorrow, they would live in this cottage as
man and wife.

As Freya approached the cottage, Aidan stepped out of the
entrance.

The sight of him never failed to make Freya’s heart race. His
short hair was starting to grow out, and it flopped in a black wave over one
eye. He was dressed lightly today, as it was one of the first warm days of
spring, in light breeches and a sleeveless tunic belted at the waist. Upon
catching sight of her approaching, Aidan leaned lazily against the doorframe
and greeted her with a smile.

“I hear from Hereric that you’re done here.” Freya stopped a
few yards away and regarded him skeptically. “Was that one of his
exaggerations, or another one of your boasts?”

Aidan laughed. “Neither. It’s done. Would you like me to carry
you across the threshold milady?”

Freya regarded him archly. “I’m no lady. I think I’m capable
of walking through a doorway myself.”

Aidan approached her, a wicked gleam in his eye. “What if I
insist on carrying you?”

Freya tried to dart past him, but Aidan was too quick. He
grabbed her and scooped her up in his arms. Then, ignoring her protests, he
carried her down the path and across the threshold.

Freya’s half-hearted objections died on her lips when she saw
inside.

A fire burned in the fire pit at the heart of the dwelling,
illuminating the clean and tidy space. He had already furnished it for her,
with clean rush-matting on the floor, a small work table near the door, and
hand-carved stools around the fire. There was a mountain of furs at the far end
of the room, partially shielded from view by a curtain of rabbit-skins sewn
together. It was a cozy, homely space. Freya could scarcely believe that it was
hers.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, her eyes brimming with tears.
“You’ve worked so hard Aidan – it’s perfect.”

Wordlessly, Aidan set her down on the floor and pulled her
into his arms. His kiss was urgent and Freya responded in kind, twining her
arms about his neck and pressing her body along the length of his. Their time
together since coming to live with Cwen had always been stolen. Aidan’s head
had taken a long time to heal, and they had been confined to the cottage for
long periods over a bitter winter that had seemed to drag endlessly. Once
spring arrived they had been able to make love for the first time in the woods,
but there was never any time to linger over it, or to lie naked for hours
afterwards.

Breaking away from his kiss and gasping for breath, Freya
glanced over at the furs and felt heat seep through her body. It was their bed
and they would be able to spend every night there from tomorrow on.

As if reading her thoughts, Aidan chuckled. “I’m tempted to
try out those furs now,” he whispered in her ear, “just to make sure they’re
comfortable for our wedding night.”

“You’ll have to wait till then,” Freya replied with a grin.
“I’ve got honey-seed cakes to bake for tomorrow and
mōder
wants to
make the final touches to my dress.”

“I prefer you naked,” Aidan replied, his eyes dark with
passion. “The cakes and the dress can wait.” He pulled the door shut and bolted
it. “But this can’t.”

With that, Aidan scooped Freya back into his arms and carried
her over to the furs.

This time she did not protest.

--

Loved
NIGHTFALL TILL DAYBREAK and want more?

Buy
Book #3 in the Kingdom of the East Angles series: THE DEEPENING NIGHT
.

--

Read
the Prologue of THE DEEPENING NIGHT.

Prologue

The
Funeral

Tamworth,
the Kingdom of Mercia – Britannia

Spring
630 A.D.

The croak of ravens echoed through the morning air. Their
cries followed Saewara through the curling mist, mocking her. There was not a
breath of wind this morning; the shrouded hillside sat in a world of its own, a
lonely island in a milky sea.

Head hung low, so that others could not see her face, Saewara
followed the mourners up to the barrow where
Egfrid
would be entombed alongside his forefathers. Behind her, she could hear the quiet
sobbing of his mother, who had been inconsolable ever since hearing the news of
her eldest son’s death.

Egfrid had been one of the king’s bravest and most
formidable warriors. His death, in a border skirmish against a band of Celts
just three days earlier, had shocked them all.

The dead man lay upon a litter; his face
chalk-white, his arms folded over his chest. They had dressed him in his finest
clothes: a fur cloak, a fine royal blue tunic and an embossed leather
breastplate. Gold rings crowded his muscular biceps, each one won for his valor
and presented after battle. His long brown hair had been brushed and tied back
against his nape.

Egfrid’s wounds had been terrible; he had been slit
open from sternum to bowel. It had taken the women most of the night to prepare
him for burial, binding up his wounds so that he could be dressed in his
finery. In the end, they had succeeded in creating the illusion that the
warrior had come to a peaceful end. To look at him now, no one would have
guessed at the deep lacerations beneath his clothing.

The mourners climbed the last stretch before the
barrow. Egfrid’s burial place marked the end of a line of mounds where Mercian
kings and nobility lay. The last king to be buried here had been Cearl, nearly
five years earlier. The last peaceful King of Mercia, he had ruled without
incident for nearly two decades, before finally succumbing to illness.

Saewara halted before the entrance to the barrow,
watching as her husband’s litter was lowered before it. Beyond, the shadows loomed.
Darkness stretched out toward Egfrid the Strong, beckoning him toward the
afterlife.

As his wife, Saewara was expected to sing the
lament for his death. Steeling herself, she squared her shoulders and lifted
her head, filling her lungs with cool, damp air. Then she sang, her voice
lifting above the mourners and drifting through the encircling mist.

Egfrid the
Strong

What great loss
we suffer

A warrior, a
husband, a son

That went
away, this also may

Sorry and
longing are ours

Exile in the
cold winter

For he no
longer serves his lord

That went
away, this also may

It is the will
of fate

That shapes
all our lives

Grief, loss
and suffering

That went
away, this also may

Saewara’s voice trailed off, while around her the
eyes of many present brimmed with tears at the lament’s haunting beauty. Saewara
cast her eyes down once more as Egfrid’s brothers slid his body inside the
barrow and sealed the entrance.

The mourners drifted away from the barrow, and retraced
their steps down the slope. Saewara lingered on the knoll for a few moments
longer, before following them. The mist was even thicker now. It created a
milky shroud around the mourners, blocking the outline of the Great Tower that
rose from a grassy hill to the south. Saewara walked slowly, lost in her
thoughts.

She did not notice a tall figure fall into step
next to her.

“You played your part beautifully, Saewara – ever
the actress.”

Saewara started, and looked up at her brother’s cruelly
handsome face in surprise.

He knew her grief was feigned. She had thought
Penda had gone ahead. Yet, instead he had lingered behind to speak to her.

In the pale morning light, Penda was a striking
sight. He wore a magnificent black fur cloak, clasped to his broad shoulders
with gleaming amber broaches. Despite the iron crown on his head – a plain
circlet with a garnet at its center – he dressed like the warrior he was. His
heavy sword swung at his side as he walked, and his tall, muscular frame was encased
in leather armor. His blond hair, so pale it was almost white, hung in a smooth
curtain over his shoulders.

Not for the first time, Saewara wondered at how
different they were. Her brother was as tall, cold and pale as a mountain
summit; in contrast to Saewara’s dark hair, small frame and fiery disposition.
She was so short that the crown of her head barely reached the center of his
chest. Their eldest brother, Eafa, who had died in East Anglia a few years
earlier, had spent years taunting Saewara about her looks – even going as far as
to say that their mother must have lain with a Celt savage to beget her, for she
could not be of the same blood as Penda and him.

“You enjoyed the lament then, brother?” she asked
coolly, preferring to respond to Penda’s barbed comment with a question.

“Yes, you have an enchanting voice.”

Saewara did not reply. She and Penda rarely spoke
these days, and he did not usually seek her out unless he had some purpose. She
guessed that this was also the case now. As such, she waited for him to speak
again.

“You do not mourn him.”

It was a statement rather than a question.

“No,” she replied quietly. “Do you blame me?”

Penda shrugged. “I care not what goes on between
man and wife. It was a good match – or it would have been if you had given him
a son.”

Saewara looked away, slowing her step so that the
mourners before her drew ahead. She did not want her mother-in-law
eavesdropping on their conversation.

“We tried, but my womb never quickened.”

“You are barren.”

Saewara bristled. “He had other women, you know
that. None of the others bore his child either.”

“If a marriage does not produce children ‘tis the
woman’s fault, not the man’s,” Penda replied with a snarl in his voice.

Saewara clenched her jaw and bit back an angry
reply. She knew she should mind her tongue. Many thought her husband’s ready
fists would have taught her meekness over the past few years. Indeed, it had
made her wary of men; yet, Egfrid’s violence only served to make the rage
within her grow.

Soon, all of this will not matter,
she consoled herself.
Soon you will be free of this place and all the vile,
scheming people who live here.

“Yes, brother,” she managed finally. “You are
right. I am barren and no good as a wife. In a few days, I will leave here and
go to Bonehill, where I will take my vows. There, I will be out of your life,
and no longer a thorn in your side.”

“Bonehill?” Penda queried coolly. “I think not,
dear sister. Barren or not, it would be a waste to send you off to a nunnery
for the rest of your days.”

“
Hwaet?”

Saewara lost her tightly won control for a moment.
She stopped and swiveled toward her brother, her gaze sweeping up to meet his.
“But there’s no point in marrying me to anyone else!”

“You are of royal blood,” Penda reminded her with
a cruel smile, locking her arm in his and forcing her to continue walking. “And
too valuable to cast aside so young. I have plans for you.”

Saewara walked on, her heart thumping against her
ribs. She could not believe she was hearing this from Penda. After the
sacrifice she had made for him – marrying a man all knew to be a brute – and
suffering greatly as a result, this was the ultimate betrayal. She knew that
Penda held no love for her – she imagined him incapable of truly loving anyone
– but now he appeared to be exacting some kind of twisted vengeance upon her.

“Who is it?” she gasped finally. “What animal will
you marry me to this time?”