Osana raised her eyes once more, to see the king’s gaze still upon her. The concern on his face made the sinking sensation grow. He was a stranger to this hall, and had only just met Deogol and his wife—and yet he knew.
“And how are you faring, milord,” she said, after a moment.
He favored her with a tired smile. “Well enough.”
“And your queen? How is Cuthburh?”
She was surprised the queen had not accompanied him here.
He stiffened at that, his gaze narrowing. Osana immediately regretted the question.
“Cuthburh is well … I believe,” he began, his voice low as he glanced down at the knife he was toying with. “However, I cannot know for sure. She has left me … has gone to Berecingas to take her vows.”
Osana stared at him, surprise rendering her mute. When she eventually found her tongue, her face grew warm with mortification. “I’m sorry, sire … I didn’t realize …”
He waved her feeble apology away. “You didn’t know—few do. It happened just a few days ago.”
Osana watched him, searching his face for signs of grief. But he wore an unreadable expression. Only his eyes gave him away, and they bore a look of resignation rather than sadness.
“So things never improved?” she asked softly.
He shook his head. “She suffered through every day of our marriage. She’s happier now … I suppose we both are.”
He did not look happy, Osana observed. Her gaze dropped then to where he continued to toy with the blade of his knife, a nervous gesture and the only sign that this conversation put him on edge.
Like that day in the orchard, which seemed so long ago now, she observed the beauty of his hands: strong, with long fingers, and yet sensitive. So different from Raedwulf’s heavy, blunt hands.
What would it feel like to have him touch her? What would his fingertips feel like trailing across her naked skin?
God’s bones—what am I doing?
Osana jerked her gaze away.
It must be the shock of losing Raedwulf, the emotional-wrench of the funeral, and her anxiety at her new status in this hall. Otherwise, why else would she entertain such thoughts?
“Will you wed again?” she asked lightly, shifting her gaze to the barely touched platter before her. Osana’s stomach clenched in a knot.
“The bishop would have me wed another—possibly a princess of Mercia or the East Angles—to strengthen our alliances in the south. However, I’d prefer not to.”
Osana nodded. “I can understand that.” She paused then, glancing up and meeting his eye once more. “It’s easier for men. You can choose never to wed again and folk will accept that. However, a widow is useless … an embarrassment.”
He frowned. “Is that what you think you are?”
She clenched her jaw and paused before responding. “I know it to be true. I can weave, cook, and sew, but there is little other purpose for me here now that Raedwulf is gone.” She broke off here, aware just how bitter she sounded. Yet now that she had started to reveal what lay in her heart, she could not stop. “Deogol and Edlyn will wish I’d thrown myself upon the bier and burned along with Raedwulf. A truly devoted wife might have.”
The look of empathy on Aldfrith’s face made her want to weep.
“You have choices, Osana,” he replied. “You don’t have to stay here.”
She huffed out a breath. “Aye … I could enter a nunnery or wed again. Yet I fear a nun’s life would wear me down, and no man will have me.”
He made a scoffing sound. “Nonsense.”
Osana shook her head. “I cannot bear children,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “No man wants a barren wife.”
Her vision swam then, and she glanced down, blinking furiously. Curse her for drinking so much mead. It had made her imprudent.
A long silence drew out between them, while the hall roared with drunken laughter, cheering, and music. It was as if they sat upon an island, apart from it all.
