“It’s a song my mother used to play to me,” he replied after a pause. “An Eriu lament.”
Osana quirked an eyebrow. “A lament, sire. It seems an odd choice of music on the morning after your handfasting?”
He went still at that.
Osana cursed her loose tongue. What had come over her? Only a goose of a woman asked such a question. She tensed, bracing herself for anger—for that was usually Raedwulf’s response when her tongue ran away with her.
However, he merely watched her—a shadow moving in his eyes. “The music suits my mood,” he said finally. “This wasn’t a union of my choosing … or my bride’s. I doubt it will be a happy one.”
The look of fatality on his face, the dead sound in his voice, touched Osana. Despair was a close friend of hers these days; she recognized it instantly in others. “Your marriage has just begun,” she replied softly. “You and Lady Cuthburh have a lifetime to grow accustomed to each other … to forge a bond.”
He watched her, a flicker of hope lighting in his eyes. “How long have you been married, Osana?”
The way he said her name caused a feather-light shiver to caress her skin. However, that question made her grow wary. She did not want to speak of her marriage. “Twelve years,” she murmured.
“And was it arranged?”
Osana nodded. “I knew Raedwulf before, but my father organized the match.”
“And were you willing?”
Osana stiffened, deeply uncomfortable now. “Aye,” she said softly, sadness and regret welling within her. “I was.”
She could have wept then, for the memory of the girl she had once been. How easily she had been taken in by Raedwulf’s blond good looks, his ready smile. No—it had not been a forced marriage. She had happily left her father’s hall, had eagerly thrown herself into her new life. It made disappointment all the bitterer now.
She was aware that the king was still watching her. There was an unnerving intelligence to that gaze, and she had the intuition that he could read her silence and the emotions she was trying to smother.
Osana found it impossible to meet his eye now. Instead, she stared down at his hands.
“You’re not happy then?” he asked gently.
She shook her head, still avoiding his gaze. She wanted to lie, to pretend, as she always did whenever she was in company. Yet her emotions felt rubbed raw this morning.
Raedwulf had rutted her like a hound the night before; he had been rough, and there had been no pleasure for her—only discomfort and a simmering rage that he dare use her so.
The truth of her life had become clear in the cold grey light of the morning—and when confronted by a simple question, she found she could not pretend.
“I am sorry to hear that.”
She glanced up, meeting his eye then. “Don’t be … take hope from my story, sire. Even those of us who go willingly to our handfasting are not guaranteed a happy end. Perhaps you and the queen are the fortunate ones … maybe it’s better to begin without illusions.”
His gaze narrowed, and she saw a nerve flicker in his cheek. “My wife despises me,” he replied. He had not raised his voice, yet there was now an edge to it that had been missing before. “She wished to enter a nunnery, but her brother forbade it. The idea of being a wife repulses her … in every sense.”
Osana did not look away from the directness of his gaze. She felt sorry for him, although she did not voice that sentiment. No man liked being the object of pity. “She may warm to you eventually,” Osana offered. “Once she accepts that this is her life now.”
Aldfrith gave a humorless laugh. “Aye.”
Drawing in a deep breath, Osana took a step back. This was a dangerous conversation and an improper one. If one of the servants heard them, there would be gossip circulating the Great Hall by nón-mete.
She had never spoken to a man in this fashion before—not even Raedwulf. Her husband was too obtuse. He never looked at her as this man did now.
“Milord,” she said finally, wetting her lips as nervousness assailed her. “I heard you were schooled to become a monk. If you had followed that path, you would have been spared this responsibility.”
He leaned back on the bench and dragged a hand through his short blond hair, leaving it spiky and tousled. It gave him a boyish, vulnerable look.
“I wasn’t ready when I first arrived upon Iona,” he replied, an edge to his voice. “I was frustrated about that at first, but then with the passing of the years, I decided I liked a scholar’s life better. I could live in quiet contemplation without the harsh demands of a monk’s life. Ironically, the day they came to collect me, the prior at Iona had told me I was ready to take my vows if I was willing.”
Silence followed his words. Osana felt at a loss to know how to respond. Her own spirits were at a low ebb this morning—yet seeing the bleak look that flitted across the king’s handsome features, she realized she was not alone in her melancholy.
