Osana readied the leather trunk in their alcove and called two of her husband’s men to carry it out to the wagon. Then she made her way out into the hall.
Women were shouting at servants, children wailed, and men hauled leather bags and trunks across the space, kicking dogs out of the way as they went. Raedwulf and Osana were not the only ones to be leaving.
There was no sign of the king—or queen—this morning.
Disappointment settled over Osana that she would not see Aldfrith again, but she quickly shrugged it off.
Goose. Pull yourself together.
Osana crossed the hall and left the tower through an arched entranceway. A grey, misty morning and the smell of wood smoke greeted her. She huffed out a breath. Summer, it seemed, was over. The scent of autumn lay heavy in the air.
Pulling her thick fur mantle close, she descended the steps to the yard below, spotting her husband leading their horses from the stables. A wagon filled with their baggage sat waiting surrounded by Raedwulf’s men—who were mounted and ready to go.
“Always the last to arrive, wife,” Raedwulf grumbled, handing over the horse’s reins.
Osana favored him with an arch look. “And rightly so, husband. Someone has to ensure you didn’t leave something behind.”
He grinned at that. Raedwulf had always enjoyed her spirit—unlike some men who might have beaten it out of her. There had only been a couple of occasions when he had taken a hand to her: when she had dared to contradict him in front of his brother and retainers. After that, Osana had taken care to save their arguments for their alcove.
“Gossiping with other wives more like,” he said before turning to his horse and swinging up onto the saddle. “I know how women like to prattle.”
Osana rolled her eyes, knowing he had his back to her.
You know nothing about women.
Gathering her skirts, Osana mounted her palfrey. She bowed her head as a chill wind gusted through her layers of clothing. Osana shivered, pulling up her fur-lined hood. The journey from Hagustaldes had been a pleasant one—but with the turn of the weather, the return would not be such an enjoyable ride.
Raedwulf urged his horse forward, and Osana followed, the wagon rumbling behind them as the driver flicked the reins and the stocky pony drawing it moved off. The wagon had been laden with wedding gifts: a fur-lined cloak for the queen, two beautifully crafted seaxes with amber-studded hilts, and a bounty of cheeses and cured meats for the king’s stores. It was far lighter for the return journey.
Against her will, Osana found her gaze drawn back toward the Great Tower of Bebbanburg. She glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to see a tall blond man standing on the steps watching them go. However, no one was there to see them off—just the ealdorman of Catraeth, who was bickering with his wife as he lumbered down the steps to the yard.
It’s best I didn’t see Aldfrith this morning.Osana dragged her gaze away and urged her mare under the high gate. The expanse of the King’s Way loomed before her.Best I return to reality.
That conversation, those stolen moments in the orchard, had been a dream; that scene seemed as if it had belonged to someone else’s life. For a few brief moments, she had forgotten that she was Osana: barren and lonely. For a short spell, she had merely been a woman in the company of a man who had made her feel alive.
But that man was king and as untouchable as a star. And she was wedded, bonded for life to another. It would do her no good to think on Aldfrith of Northumbria—for it would only make her melancholy grow. She glanced right at where Raedwulf rode, his thick blond hair tumbling over his shoulders, his profile ruggedly handsome as always. Raedwulf of Hagustaldes was her life. It would be better for her to forget she had ever spoken to the king.
Chapter Eight
A Promise for Life
Bebbanburg, Kingdom of Northumbria
Two years later
“YOU ARE LEAVING then?”
“Aye … it’s time, Aldfrith.”
He stiffened at the use of his name. In the two years of their union, Cuthburh had rarely used it—usually addressing him as ‘sire’ or ‘milord’. However, there was no warmth in her voice now, and his name sounded clipped and cold on her lips.
They faced each other—man and wife—inside the alcove they shared. Aldfrith had returned from hawking to find Cuthburh standing amongst trunks and bags, servants scurrying around her. At the arrival of the king, they had dipped their heads and backed out of the alcove, leaving the king and queen alone.
“We made a promise at our handfasting,” Aldfrith said, his voice flat and toneless to his hearing. “It was a promise for life.”
Cuthburh drew herself up at that, her mouth thinning. “The only promise worth anything to me is the one I made to God years ago. I will be wedded to no one but him.”
That was it then—the way of things.
