Osana wished she shared their merriment. Not that she wished the king and his young wife ill—only that these days she found it hard to dredge up any feelings of happiness at all.
Melancholy had settled over her in a heavy shroud.
She circuited the market square, declining the offers of a handful of vendors, before turning to retrace her steps. It was then she spotted the small wooden church at the corner of the square.
Osana was not ready to return to the fetid, smoky Great Hall, to sit amongst the other wives and pretend to be interested in their prattle.
She wanted peace—solitude.
Osana pushed open the oaken door and entered the church, leaving the noise of the market behind her as she pulled the door shut.
A simple timbered space greeted her. The floor was beautiful though: a sea of grey tiles that whispered underfoot as she made her way to the altar. Above stretched a ribcage of wooden beams. The air carried the odor of tallow from the bank of candles burning behind the altar. A row of tiny windows along each length of the building let in streams of pale grey light.
Osana reached the altar, where a cross carved from dark wood rose up before her. Silently she knelt, clasping her hands in front of her.
The small church in Hagustaldes was also a refuge for her, a place she withdrew to when life in the ealdorman’s hall became insufferable. She loved the quiet, to be left alone with her own thoughts.
Lord forgive me, she thought, bowing her head.I do not wish to be a wife.
They were dark traitorous thoughts, ones she dared not utter aloud.
My husband is not a bad man. She clenched her fingers hard together.But sometimes, when I look upon his sleeping face, I wish him dead … just so that I wouldn’t have to suffer his touch ever again.
“It is a heart-warming sight, to see a woman so pious at this time of day.”
The rumble of a male voice forced Osana out of her reverie. She straightened up and twisted round to see a tall, rangy man with hawkish features and a receding hairline approach. He wore dark robes, his sandaled feet scuffing upon the tiled floor. Beside him walked a small, slight, dark-haired man with bright blue eyes wearing priest’s robes.
Osana recognized the taller of the two figures as Bishop Wilfrid, but although she had seen the priest at the handfasting feast, she did not know his name.
“Wes þu hal, Bishop Wilfrid,” she greeted him.
The bishop halted and inclined his head, his keen gaze sweeping over her. “Have we met?”
“No … I am Osana of Hagustaldes,” she replied, rising to her feet.
The priest stepped forward. “My name is Oswald. I’m the priest here.” He favored her with a smile then. “I saw you yesterday at the feast. Your husband is the ealdorman of Hagustaldes?”
Osana nodded.
“Did you enjoy the handfasting?” the priest asked.
“I did.”
Beside Oswald, the bishop allowed himself a small smile. “A splendid match is it not?”
She dipped her head. “Aye … it seems so.” She did not speak what was in her thoughts, that the king and his bride had seemed ill at ease with each other the evening before—that Aldfrith of Northumbria had the loneliest eyes she had ever seen.
Bishop Wilfrid watched her a moment; he had a piercing look that made her uncomfortable. Then he stepped back, motioning to the altar, his sleeve whispering in the cavernous space.
“We have interrupted your prayer … please continue.”
Osana dipped her head and moved away from the altar. “You didn’t interrupt me,” she replied. “I was finished anyway.” She stepped around the two men and headed toward the door. “Good day.”
Osana stepped back into the sunless morning and heaved a deep breath. All she wanted was a moment of solitude, a space where she could lower the mask she wore day-in-day-out. However, it sometimes felt as if the world conspired against her.
Peace was rare these days.
She made her way back up to the high gate and passed into the courtyard beyond. The Great Tower of Bebbanburg, made of the same red rock as the outcrop this fort stood upon, cast a deep shadow over the yard.
