The Deepening Night (The Kingdom of the East Angles Book 3) (4 page)

Penda had caught up with her.

“Ride!” Oswald shouted at her. “Bonehill lies but a short
distance to the south. We may outrun them yet!”

Without waiting for her response, the young man dug his heels
into his horse’s flanks and took off up the hill. Saewara tore her gaze from
the approaching riders and followed suit. Crouching low over the dun mare’s
prickly mane, she focused on the top of the rise. Her horse was tired, but she
urged it on. They had to outrun those warriors. She could not return to
Tamworth. She would rather die.

As if sensing its rider’s desperation, the horse gathered its
last reserves of energy and thundered up the slope. It was an exposed spot;
there were no thickets of trees to hide in. They would have to outrun their
pursuers or be captured.

Saewara crested the top of the hill and saw that Oswald was
already half-way down the slope. He was fleeing now, with no thought to her
safety. Although she could hardly blame him, for she too feared Penda’s wrath,
Saewara felt a stab of outrage at his cowardice.

She cursed under her breath and clung on as her horse raced
down the hill. Beyond, lay a wooded valley, and a stream that twinkled in the
dawn. There, in the heart of the valley lay the thatched roof of a long timbered
hall, surrounded by a high perimeter fence constructed of sharp wooden palings:
the monastery of Bonehill.

Saewara nearly sobbed in relief at the sight of her
destination. She had come so far. She could not bear to be thwarted now. The
thundering of horses’ hooves shook the ground around her. They were close; so
close that she could hear the grunts of their horses and the curses of the men
who pursued her.

Her horse squealed in panic then, took the bit between its
teeth and bolted.

Saewara had no choice but to cling on with her knees. Her
surroundings passed in a blur and she quickly gained on Oswald.

Then, she heard the unmistakable twang of a bow-string
releasing, and cursed.

She should have realized that her brother would send his
bowmen after her. This was no battle – a place for spears, axes and swords –
but a hunt.

A moment later, Oswald fell. An arrow hit him square between
the shoulder blades, and he pitched from his horse with a strangled scream. A
moment after that, Saewara’s horse went down from under as an arrow caught its
hind-quarters.

Suddenly, Saewara was airborne, hurtling through the air like
a pebble from a slingshot. She curled herself up into a ball, as she had been
taught when learning how to ride, and braced herself for impact.

Saewara hit the dew-laden grass and felt the air gush from her
lungs. She rolled down the hill and came to a halt at the bottom, face-down on
her stomach.

She lay there for a few moments, the sound of laughter and
approaching hooves, ringing in her ears. Gingerly, she drew her knees in to her
chest and rolled over onto her side, wincing as she did so. Her entire left
side felt as if it were on fire. Oswald lay nearby, face-down, unmoving.

A group of warriors, riding lathered horses, drew to a halt
around her. She recognized many of the faces. Penda’s loyal warriors and thegns
– men as ruthless and cold as the man they served. One of the men, Thrydwulf, a
warrior that Saewara had always feared, swung down from his horse and strode
over to Oswald.

He turned him over with his foot before spitting on him.

“Pity.” He cast a cold glance over his shoulder. “He’s dead.
Penda was planning to make sport of your lover.”

“He wasn’t my lover,” Saewara wheezed, struggling to regain
the breath that had been knocked out of her. “He was only helping me.”

“No man risks his life for a woman unless he thinks she’s
his,” Thrydwulf walked toward her. “Slut!”

“You’re wrong,” Saewara gasped, knowing she should hold her tongue,
but finding herself unable. The disdainful gazes of the men surrounding her was
more than she could take. “Oswald was going to take his vows at Bonehill. He
wanted to become a monk – to serve god!”

The warriors laughed then, mocking her.

“A monk, eh?” Thrydwulf looked back at where Oswald gazed
sightlessly into the heavens. “Then a quick death was the best thing for him.”

***

“
Hōre!”
The flat of Penda’s hand connected with
Saewara’s cheek with a crack, sending her sprawling back across the rush-matting
floor. She landed on her back and sat up, clutching her stinging cheek. Tears
blurred her vision. The faces of those around her distorted, as if she was
looking at them from the bottom of a clear, deep pond.

Saewara bit the inside of her cheek and tried to stop the
tears. She had promised herself on the ride back that she would not cry – that she
would exhibit the same coldness as Penda himself. Yet, when faced with his icy
rage, it had been too much.

Cyneswide stood at the edge of the room, near the fire pit,
her face white and taut, while her two daughters clutched at her skirts,
crying.

Penda ignored them.

He walked over to Saewara and pulled her up by her braid. The
pain was excruciating and it took all of Saewara’s will not to cry out. She
stared up into her brother’s pale blue eyes and felt her skin prickle with
terror.

“You bring shame upon your kin,” he hissed in her face. “You
must obey me in all things but you, and your lover, thought better.”

“Oswald was not my lover,” Saewara whispered, her voice
breaking slightly. “I want nothing more to do with men. I’ve already told you
that he wanted to take his vows. Like me, he planned to live at Bonehill as one
of god’s servants.”

“You serve no one but me,
hōre,
” Penda shook her
hard. His face was white with rage. She had never seen him so angry. Usually,
Penda’s temper was like a wintry blast – but this anger pulsed like the hot
core of a furnace. “You will marry who I say – even if I have to drag you into
his bed myself!”

Saewara’s tears flowed, uninterrupted. Her one chance, her
only hope, had gone. Nothing but a bleak, empty future faced her now.

“Why don’t you just kill me,” she sobbed. “I don’t want to be
another man’s wife. If I can’t be free I’d rather be dead. Just kill me!”

“Silence!” Penda roared, shaking her so hard that her teeth
rattled. Her scalp burned where he gripped it. “I
would
kill you, if
this marriage wasn’t so important to Mercia. Don’t think I wouldn’t.”

“Then why don’t you? I’ve brought shame on our family. I’m not
fit to marry!”

Penda slapped her again with his free hand, snapping her head
back. This time, Saewara screamed, the sound mingling with the wails of her
young nieces.

“Look at me!” Penda ordered.

Saewara opened her eyes to find his face just inches from
hers.

“You are indeed a disgrace to the Mercian line,” he snarled.
“But you will still do as you’re told. You will do what you were bred for.
Annan of the East Angles will be here in days and you will marry him without a
whimper of complaint. Is that clear?”

Saewara stared back at him, gasping in agony. He shook her
again and her head swam as her vision began to speckle.

“I didn’t hear you?” he hissed.

Saewara closed her eyes, blocking everything out, before she
gave a barely perceptible nod.

“Yes, Milord,” she whispered.

Chapter
Three

Between
Brothers

“
Hwæt!
” Annan stared at his brother in shock. “What did
you just say?”

Aethelhere returned Annan’s gaze without faltering, his face
uncharacteristically serious.

“Hereswith. I want your permission to marry her.”

Annan stepped back from Aethelhere, just in case he was seized
by the urge to strike him down. No, he had heard correctly; as if things were
not bad enough, even his own kin were turning against him.

He could not believe the injustice of it all. It was not that
he was in love with Hereswith – he hardly knew the girl. Yet, she was comely
with a gaze that promised much; if he was to marry anyone, he wanted it to be
her. Why should his brother be happy when he was miserable? Was
wyrd
,
fate, trying to punish him?

“Don’t look at me like that,” Aethelhere was resolute. He
appeared to have no intention of retracting his request. “I would never have
asked, had it not been clear that you will do as Penda bids. As you’re about to
leave, I knew I had to ask you – otherwise Hereswith will be gone by the time
you return and I will have missed my chance.”

“I was to marry her,” Annan ground out. “Do you think I want
you rubbing that in my face?”

“I don’t ask this to spite you,” Aethelhere countered. “It’s time
I took a wife – and if you will not have Hereswith, I will.”

“She’s not some fat sow you can barter at market,” Annan
snarled, turning on his heel and stalking to the other end of his bower, where
he had been packing away the last few items he would take with him to Tamworth.
“She may have something to say on the matter!”

He stuffed a heavy woolen tunic into his saddlebag and glanced
back over at where Aethelhere stood, immobile, beside the curtain that screened
them from the rest of the hall.

To Annan’s fury, his brother now wore a cocky smile. “I’m sure
I can convince her to marry me, instead of you,” he said confidently, “after
all, if she returns to Bebbanburg, the Northumbrian King may marry her to some
ageing ealdorman. I’m a much better choice.”

“You astound me.” Annan shook his head, still choking down
rage. “Since when did you get so full of yourself?”

“So do you give your permission?”

“
Thunor’s hammer
– you’re like a dog with a bone!”

“I need to know.”

Annan cursed and kicked the helmet he had been about to pick up
across the bower. It bounced off the tapestry-covered wall with a dull thud.

“
Nithhogg
take you! She was mine. Now I’m going to be
saddled with some Mercian bitch.”

“You’re marrying this widow anyway,” Aethelhere responded
stubbornly. “What does it matter?”

“It matters because if I can’t have her, I don’t see why you
should!” Annan roared.

Aethelhere stared back, waiting for his answer.

“Very well,” Annan snarled, “you can have her – if she’ll have
you!”

“Thank you, Annan.”

The relief in Aethelhere’s voice made jealousy twist Annan’s
stomach. Hereswith was a woman that men, even brothers, could easily become
enemies over.

“I wouldn’t be so smug,” Annan continued, unable to stop
himself from ruining his brother’s victory. “The King of Northumbria might have
something to say about your match – he wanted his niece wedded to the King of
the East Angles, not his brother.”

“Then, I won’t give him the chance to interfere,” Aethelhere
countered, as cocksure as ever, “If Hereswith says ‘yes’, I’ll wed her before he
has time to protest.”

“Do what you want, you will anyway.” Annan turned his back on
Aethelhere then. Just when he thought his life could not get any bleaker, his
brother had to go and kick him in the guts. “Only, make sure you’re wedded by
the time I return, I won’t be attending your handfasting.”

***

Annan made his way down the steps from his bower, and across
the Great Hall toward the entrance. Outside, a group of his most loyal
warriors, Saba among them, would be waiting patiently for their king. They
should have departed Rendlaesham at dawn but Annan had delayed as much as he
was able. Now, Aethelhere’s announcement made him want to get away from the
‘Golden Hall’ as quickly as possible.

It made him never want to return.

Hereswith was there, sitting beside the fire pit at her
distaff. He caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye. Even pale and
strained, her eyes red-rimmed from weeping, she was beautiful. Her hair flowed
in a golden curtain down her slender back as she sat, ramrod straight at her
distaff.

Aethelhere would not have had time to approach her as yet.

Annan wondered if she would refuse him; she did seem very
upset at the prospect of losing Annan. Part of him, the part that did not see
why his brother should be happy when he was not, hoped that she would shun
Aethelhere and return north. Annan was not sure he could bear to return here
and see Hereswith wed to his brother; although with a long journey ahead of
him, he preferred not to dwell on it.

Annan acknowledged Hereswith with a curt nod. The gazes of
those who served him, tracked the king as he crossed the floor. It was a relief
when he reached the oak doors and stepped outside into the crisp morning air.
He was half-way down the steps to the stable yard, when a woman’s voice hailed
him.

“Milord!”

Annan recognized the voice instantly. He turned, and found
himself but a yard away from Hereswith of Bebbanburg.

“Hereswith,” he said gently. “You should not follow me. There
is nothing to say.”

“But I would say ‘goodbye’.” Her voice trembled and her eyes
filled with tears. “Were you going to leave without speaking to me?”

“I thought it would be easier this way. I am sorry we cannot
be wed,” he replied.

“Can you not refuse Penda?” she asked. The hope in her voice
cut him like a freshly sharpened blade.

Annan shook his head.

“It has gone too far for that. I swore an oath to Penda, and I
must uphold it. If it were for myself I might not – but I’m responsible for the
well-being of this kingdom’s folk. Penda is not a man lightly crossed.”

Anger flared in Hereswith’s blue eyes. “But neither are you!
Tell him ‘no’.”

Annan shook his head and gave a wry smile. “Penda and I are
very different men. He seeks to rule whereas I had this responsibility thrust
upon me. I know how to lead an army and inspire man’s loyalty – but Penda knows
how to conquer. As lovely as you are Hereswith, I would not risk my people’s
lives for you. Do not ask me to.”

Hereswith’s mouth thinned slightly at that. Suddenly, for an
instant, Annan had a glimpse of a woman who was nothing like the sweet maid she
appeared to be. There was a core of iron hidden under that beautiful façade.
Yet, this did not make Annan want her any less; if anything, her fire stirred
him.

In this case, however, this woman was not destined to be his.

“Goodbye, Hereswith,” he said gently. “I wish you well.”

With that, he turned, the heavy cape he wore about his
shoulders swinging, and descended the rest of the wooden stairs. In the stable
yard below, Saba stood waiting, with a party of twenty warriors and their
horses. They were all grim-faced; Penda might not be marching on the kingdom,
but this latest development had made them all uneasy. Annan did not blame them.
Penda was too ambitious to leave them alone for long. This was but a sign of
things to come.

Wordlessly, for both men knew there was nothing more to be
said until they were far from Rendlaesham, Saba nodded to his king. Annan gave
him a curt nod in response before strapping on his bags behind the saddle.
Then, taking the reins from Saba, Annan swung up onto the back of his horse.
The heavy-set black stallion shifted under him, impatient to be on its way.

A crowd had now gathered to see off the king. Ignoring them,
especially the stricken face of one woman in particular, Annan slung his heavy
lime shield over his back and adjusted his sword –
Night Bringer
– so
that it sat within easy reach should they be attacked during the journey. Close
to Rendlaesham it would be relatively safe, but Annan had seen enough of the
world to know that it was in the moments when a man let his guard down that he
came to grief. Next, he put on his iron helmet. It was heavy and uncomfortable,
and would cause him to sweat if he wore it for too long. Yet, it shielded his
face, from his nose up, from view – something that Annan was grateful for as he
took his leave of Rendlaesham.

Annan turned his stallion and urged it into a brisk trot. He
led his men out of the shadow of the Great Hall, and through the gates into
Rendlaesham. They rode through the town toward the main gates, along a wide,
unpaved street. Crowds of townsfolk came out to see the king.

They were all there: the peasants who worked the fields and
orchards outside Rendlaesham, the iron smith, the carpenter, the baker, and the
brewer. Even the keeper of the town’s mead hall had made an appearance; a
florid-faced man who appeared as if he consumed as much mead as he served.
Crowds of women and children gathered at the roadside. Some waved, some called
out to him – while others watched on silently – their faces gaunt with worry.

Their expressions pained Annan. Although he had temporarily
saved them from the axes and spears of the Mercians, most folk knew that it was
but a stay of execution. He had given away his own, and the Kingdom’s, pride
for a fragile peace.

Annan shared their worries, for there were many nights when he
lay awake thinking of the choice he had made. Now, more than ever, he was
coming to regret it.

***

A golden dusk settled over the flat meadows of the East
Anglian countryside, bringing a long day’s journey to an end. The king’s party
made camp next to a stand of lime trees and a small, clear brook. After a cold
start, the day had warmed considerably. Even as the sun slid behind the western
horizon, the air had a warmth to it; soft with the promise of summer.

They erected a tent for the king, and another for his thegns.
The remaining men would sleep before the fire outside or keep watch over the
camp. Annan stayed outside for a while, watching as the last of the sunset
faded from the sky and night stole over the world. He shared a cup of ale with
his men around the fire and together they ate rabbits that they had roasted
over the embers.

Once he had eaten, Annan retired to his tent. There, he sat
before the small fire pit in the center, on the edge of the mound of furs.
Outside, he could hear the muted sounds of his men’s voices, punctuated by the
distant hooting of an owl. It was peaceful out here, far from those who made
demands on him, and Annan relished the quiet.

I’m but thirty-three winters, yet I feel as if I
carry the weight of the world upon my shoulders,
he thought, feeding the
fire with some dry sticks.
Just a year ago, I spent my days hunting, chasing
women and drinking.
How things change.

Once he had organized the first watches around the camp’s
perimeters, Saba joined Annan for a cup of mead in front of the fire.

“Still brooding?” his friend observed as he sat down on a pile
of furs opposite the king and took the cup Annan passed him.

“No,” Annan replied, stretching his long legs out before him,
“just reflecting.”

“Sounds like brooding to me.”

Annan shrugged. “Call it what you will. And wipe that smirk
off your face – just because you’re lovesick for Hilda doesn’t mean the rest of
us have to go around grinning like idiots.”

Saba roared with laughter at that, nearly spilling his mead
into the fire. When he recovered, his eyes sparkled with mirth.

“You’ve developed a forked tongue of late,” he observed,
“although you’re not wrong. That slave girl is a pretty wench. I’d willingly take
her to my bed.”

“She might have something to say about that,” Annan replied.
“Every time you look her way the girl wilts in terror.”

“She’s been treated cruelly, that much is clear.” Saba frowned
then. “But given time I will teach her we are not all beasts.”

Annan returned his friend’s gaze before nodding. “May fate
favor you both, if you wish to pursue her upon our return to Rendlaesham I will
allow it.”

“
Wyrd
has been kind to me so far,” Saba replied, “and I
hope my good fortune will continue. Thank you – I would like to pursue her.”

The men lapsed into silence then, each lost in their own
thoughts for a few moments. It was Annan who spoke first, his gaze fixed upon
the dancing flames.

“Aethelhere has asked me for permission to wed Hereswith.”

Saba’s eyebrows shot up at this. “Truly?”

Annan nodded. “He asked me just before we departed the Great
Hall. He couldn’t risk her returning to the north while we are in Mercia.”