“The king has arrived,” she said breaking the long silence between the two women. “It’s time.”
Edlyn glanced up, her features tightening. It was almost as if she had forgotten that Osana was there. Not bothering to answer, she nodded and rose to her feet.
Raedwulf’s men had built him a pyre upon a longboat. It sat on the muddy banks of the Tyne, awaiting the ceremony that would begin Raedwulf’s journey to the afterlife.
A light rain fell as the crowd of mourners gathered on the riverbank. It was a still afternoon and the light was dimming, warning them all that winter was coming. The days had started to shorten. The harvest was now behind them, and there was a nip to the air which had not been present days earlier.
Osana pulled up her hood, drawing it forward so it obscured as much of her face as possible.
She had not wept since Raedwulf’s death, and although she wore a strained expression, she knew it would not be enough. The folk of Hagustaldes expected to see the ealdorman’s widow grieve.
Eyes downcast, Osana blinked furiously, wishing she could summon tears to appease them all. She did not hate her husband, and she had not wished him dead—yet it was impossible to cry when she felt nothing but emptiness inside her.
A procession of warriors approached the longboat, crossing the water meadow from the town’s walls. The leaders carried a bier where Raedwulf lay, dressed in his finest doeskin breeches, a long tunic hemmed with gold, and a fur mantle. His hands were clasped over his broad chest, holding his sword in place. The armrings he had earned over the years glinted in the watery afternoon light.
The terrible wound to his belly—which had taken days to kill him—had been bound and covered.
The procession arrived at the water’s edge, and the men lifted the bier onto the longboat before fanning out around it.
At the back of the group, Osana spied the king.
Two years had passed since she had last seen him, and he looked different. He still wore his blond hair shorter than most men, and was clean-shaven, but his face was sterner than she remembered. It made him look older, more of a king and less of a philosopher.
She had forgotten how tall he was. He stood almost a foot taller than some of the men surrounding him and even taller than the lanky, dark-robed figure that followed two steps behind him. Bishop Wilfrid had accompanied the king’s party from Bebbanburg even though Hagustaldes had its own bishop. Bishop Godwin was a small, fey-looking fellow who now hovered on the edge of the mourners and who, Osana had assumed, would lead the funeral ceremony.
However, Osana’s gaze did not linger upon Bishop Wilfrid. Like two years earlier, she found her attention drawn back to Aldfrith. His presence—different from the loud, arrogant warriors she had grown up with—had a magnetic quality, an aura of calm strength that captivated her.
Careful.
Osana snapped her gaze away and glanced right to find Edlyn watching her under hooded lids. Her sister by marriage wore a thoughtful expression, her green eyes sharp.
Heart pounding, Osana dropped her gaze once more. Why did she feel so guilty? She had done nothing wrong. Edlyn did not know that Osana had thought often about Aldfrith upon her return to Hagustaldes, that he had intruded on her thoughts far too often for a long while afterward.
Still, this was not the place to stare like a besotted maid—not when her husband lay dead just a few yards away.
Bishop Wilfrid left the king’s side and made his way up to the water’s edge. His sharp-featured face was screwed up in a scowl, and Osana wondered if the bishop disapproved of this style of funeral.
It was too close to the old ways—to the funeral pyres of their elders when folk worshipped Woden, Thunor, Freya, and their kin. Amongst the high born those ways were no longer followed, although common folk still paid tribute to the old gods at festivals and the four solstices during the year.
Raedwulf had been baptized, yet he had never been a good Christian—worshipping in name only. Unlike Osana, who had been brought up in a pious household, Raedwulf’s father had been proudly pagan. In the agony-filled days before his death, Raedwulf had insisted he would burn upon a longboat, as his father had.
Godwin ventured forward, his head bowed, and approached Bishop Wilfrid. They spoke together on the water’s edge, a brief exchange in low voices that did not carry. Bishop Godwin appeared cowed by the older man’s presence, although his thin face flushed as he spoke to Wilfrid.
Surprised, Osana realized they were arguing.
Wilfrid barked something sharp at Godwin, and the younger man moved back, hunching his shoulders. Then, an affronted look upon his face, Godwin shuffled off to rejoin the crowd of mourners.
Osana frowned. She did not know what exactly had passed between the two bishops, yet Wilfrid was out of line. It seemed that he hadinsistedon carrying out the ceremony.
Osana glanced across at the king, wondering if he would step in. Yet although Aldfrith wore a displeased expression, he did not.
Standing before the longboat, Bishop Wilfrid stooped down, his fingers scooping up a handful of mud. Then he spoke, his deep, gravelly voice echoing through the stillness.
“Here lies Raedwulf, son of Eorpwald, Ealdorman of Hagustaldes. Strong in life and proud in death—God watches over you.” The bishop paused here, letting his words settle before he resumed his prayer. “The Lord is our Light and our salvation … our strength. Our hearts shall not fear death, for there is a time to be born and a time to die.”
The bishop let the mud drop from his fingers, his gaze fixed upon Raedwulf’s corpse.
“And so we commit this warrior’s body to the water, the earth, so it may be cleansed by fire. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
