Brynn finished off her first cup of wine and called for another. She tried to think, tried to sort out wisdom from pain and anger from grief.
What did she want? She wanted to lie down and stay there. She wanted to curl so deep inside the past that she reached to the time when her son had been alive, a time that now existed only in her mind.
She wanted her son back. She’d thought Hylden would have peace now. She had been so wrong.
After the death of a king, aldermen and thanes arose from across the land to try claiming the title for themselves. That was the way it always happened. The death of Eormenulf had been no different.
Aldermen and thanes had splintered off into factions, each with their own claimant. After the first few months, the factions had solidified behind Brynn’s uncle, Aelgar, and an alderman called Winfric.
The war between them had been bloody, lasting the better part of two years. Brynn had been barely fourteen at the start of it, but her elder sister Aelfwynn had led sorceresses and thanes into battle, wielding an axe as well as her spells.
Many people said Aelfwynn was the reason Aelgar had won. She had been charming, fierce, and unrelenting. A warrior goddess if ever there was one. Aelfwynn the Brave, they had called her.
Some had even whispered the wordqueenbehind Aelgar’s back. Was Aelfwynn not the daughter of the last king and a sorceress, too? Woman she might be, but Aelfwynn had won more battles than her sickly uncle.
In the end, it had not mattered. Aelfwynn had died in a muddy field, her body covered in too many wounds to know which had been fatal.
Aelfwynn’s warriors had met Winfric’s the way armies had met one another for as long as anyone could remember. Both armies had drawn up into formation, shields pressed togetherwith weapons reaching over the top. Each line formed a wall of shields or a shieldwall, as it was called.
Brynn had not stood in the front, but a few rows back, able to see her sister’s shining helmet among the warriors. The lines met in a great clatter and crash, the grunting of men, the clang of weapons, and the air glowing withkaas blood was spilled and sorceresses worked their spells.
There were only three ways to break an enemy shieldwall—smashing through it, tricking the enemy into abandoning it, or flanking and attacking from the rear.
Their flank was supposed to be guarded by a force from Alderman Ostig, but he and his thanes had not been there. Ostig’s men had been positioned on the wrong hill south of the Cerin River instead of north, miles away from the battlefield. Some people blamed a miscommunication, but some said it was spite over Aelfwynn refusing the alderman’s offer of marriage. Aelfwynn had never mentioned a marriage proposal from Ostig, but Brynn’s sister had received plenty, so perhaps that one had simply not been worth mentioning.
Whatever the reason, Aelfwynn’s line had been flanked and it had been a bloodbath. Brynn had fled and survived by hiding in a cove created by the roots of a tree along the river. Once she was sure Winfric’s men had gone, Brynn had picked her way through corpses in the aftermath. She found her sister’s body naked, already stripped of the precious ringmail and armor that had belonged to their father.
Aelfwynn the Brave was buried in a shallow grave beside the Cerin River. Brynn had laid the stones herself, her shaking, bleeding hands making the work clumsy and slow.
The memory blurred with a more recent one—laying the cairn stones over her son. She had buried him in a cedar chest lined with his blankets and the wolf carved from oak that had been hisfavorite toy. This time she’d had the servants to help, but it had been small comfort as she watched the chest buried by rocks.
Was she cursed to see everyone she loved swallowed by the stones?
Brynn closed her eyes. She could still feel the phantoms of her son’s small hands wrapping around her fingers. Sometimes at night she still woke, thinking she heard his cries, only to find it was the wind outside her window.
Her baby was gone. Rotting underground in the linen shroud she’d made from his blankets.
He wasn’t supposed to die. He’d made it through his first year. Most children didn’t. Even without an Istovari mother, his chances of reaching adulthood should have been good.
Brynn finished her second cup of wine before Cenric and Aelgar finished reviewing the contract.
Because she had the king’s permission, Brynn didn’t need the approval of her mother’s family to remarry. Aelgar asked her several questions—if she agreed to this union, if she entered this arrangement of her own free will, and so on—and she spoke her consent.
Aelgar smiled at Brynn, though his expression was touched with sympathy as he did.
Wassa, the king’s attending sorceress, looked on with tight lips. She’d also been opposed to this union, but seemed resigned to it just as Brynn and Cenric were. As Eadburh and Esa were.
In fact, it seemed the only person pleased with this arrangement was Aelgar. Brynn had to wonder why. As best she had determined, none of Aelgar’s vassals or liegemen had spoken against it, so they must be in support as well.
The small private dining room Aelgar was using to formalize this union was barely large enough for the six large tables that now sat Cenric’s men and the gathered witnesses.
“Then we are agreed,” Aelgar sounded like a man who had just won at dice. “Your marriage is final. Let us feast.”
Yes, this wedding was very different from Brynn’s last one. She took another sip from her third cup.
Cenric took his place on her right. He had to adjust the sword at his hip as he sat down. He must have gotten it back as soon as he left the king’s main hall.
Why did he think he needed a sword here?
