Aldfrith observed his wife, taking in her haughty face and cold eyes. She was barely more than twenty winters now, yet to him, she appeared much older. As always, she wore heavy woolen robes that shrouded her figure and an enveloping headrail. Her face—which he had once found so pretty—now just seemed austere.
The attraction he had once felt for her had eventually died.
He had tried to consummate their marriage again on several occasions, for only a weak fool would give up so easily, yet she had rejected him each time. On his final attempt, they had been alone together in their alcove, undressing to retire for the night. He had told her she was beautiful and reached out to stroke her hair. Cuthburh had then shrieked as if scalded before beginning to sob.
Aldfrith never bothered again after that.
“So you are set on going to Berecingas?” he asked.
Cuthburh responded with a brisk nod. “I have sent word to Abbess Hildelith—she has space for me at her nunnery.”
Aldfrith’s gaze dropped to the luggage at her feet. “Have you organized an escort?”
“Aye … the bishop has organized a party of four horsemen to accompany me south.”
Aldfrith’s jaw clenched at the mention of the bishop.
It seems I’m the last to know.
“Berecingas is a long ride,” he said, forcing down his irritation. “Four men aren’t enough. I will have another four warriors accompany you.”
Her blue eyes widened at that, and for a moment her ice-queen façade cracked. She almost looked … guilty.
Cuthburh dropped her gaze, her fingers twisting around the end of the rope she used to gird her waist. “You’re a good man, Aldfrith … better than I deserve.”
He frowned, his irritation rising further. Not only was his wife about to humiliate him, but she made him feel like a cuckold. Other men would not have tolerated her behavior. Other men would have taken her whether she wanted it or not.
Suddenly, he just wished to be rid of her, to have this ice-cold wraith out of his life.
Aldfrith stepped back, schooling his face into an impassive mask and smoothing his frown. He motioned to her luggage before turning away. “I shall leave you to your packing.”
Aldfrith stood upon the palisade to the right of the low gate and watched his wife leave.
A chill breeze whispered in from the sea. The water was a leaden expanse that stretched east, and the sky in that direction looked ominous, warning of bad weather on its way.
However, Aldfrith paid the storm clouds no mind. Instead, his gaze tracked the slender figure atop a bay palfrey who rode—spine straight—down the causeway to the road below. Two of his men led the way, the Northumbrian banner fluttering in the wind between them, while the rest of the party rode behind the queen.
Watching her go, Aldfrith felt nothing.
Not a shred of sadness, not a glimmer of regret, or even a flicker of anger.
Nothing.
This was how his life was meant to be—he had known it from childhood. He had been alone for so long it felt like his natural state. Actually, he preferred it. There was a simplicity in being alone.
He was king, ruled a vast tract of land, and had thousands of men to command, yet he felt utterly alone. He had felt less lonely living a hermit’s life upon Iona than he did now in a busy hall. The Great Tower of Bebbanburg only ever grew quiet in that short space after the last warrior stretched out upon his cloak, and when the first servant rose at dawn to stoke the embers of the fire pits.
Aldfrith watched Cuthburh kick her palfrey into a fast canter, as if she was in a panic to leave, as if he would change his mind and come after her.
He would do no such thing.
Aldfrith inhaled deeply before letting the breath escape—and with it the tension of the past two years.
“So you couldn’t convince her to stay?”
A deep voice interrupted Aldfrith, and he turned to see Bishop Wilfrid standing next to him, his dark robes fluttering in the wind.
Aldfrith frowned. The bishop was not a welcome sight. “Did you encourage Cuthburh?”
