Aldfrith found it difficult to focus on the trencher of mutton stew and braised onions that a servant placed before him. Osana—even pale and tense as she was—made his hunger disappear.
It had been a shock to see her.
He had regretted making that offer after her husband’s funeral, had thought upon his rash words all the way back to Bebbanburg. But with the passing of the months, he had relaxed, confident she had dismissed his offer as folly.
Bishop Wilfrid, despite his blunt way of putting things, was right. It was not seemly for an attractive widow to walk into his hall, unescorted, and remind him of his promise. He had seen the panic on her face though when they had locked eyes earlier; she had regretted coming here, had wanted to flee.
Even now, she looked poised to run. If the bishop continued to sting her, she would, for she was a proud woman with an independent spirit.
Aldfrith drew in a deep breath and started on his meal.
Fool.
He should have kept his mouth shut. But she had looked so lonely sitting there after the funeral—a show of brittle strength—that the words had been out before he could stop them.
The truth was that he did not want her here.
Life had been simpler after Cuthburh’s departure. For the first time since leaving the peace of Iona, he had begun to enjoy life again. He no longer had to suffer stony silences at every mealtime or lie watching his wife’s back night after night. These days he shared his alcove only with his hound, and Argus was far more pleasant company.
He had fallen into a comfortable routine at Bebbanburg now; his time was divided between ruling, writing, and hawking. He enjoyed his contact with the people he ruled and had grown comfortable with making the decisions that went with his role. The folk of Northumbria seemed to have accepted him as their king too.
Aldfrith glanced up, his gaze settling once more upon Osana. She was picking at her meal, eyes downcast. The light of the cressets behind her illuminated her smooth, milky skin and long eyelashes.
The truth was that this woman had fascinated him from the first moment he had set eyes upon her. She made him feel restless, she took away his peace. If she was to remain in Bebbanburg, he would need to keep her at arm’s length.
Aldfrith had fought hard to regain his equilibrium, to find his place in the world. He liked his life as it was—safe, predictable, and measured.
“We should leave.” Osana folded up a tunic and placed it upon a narrow wooden shelf. “I can’t live here.”
“Hwaet?” Lora’s incredulous response made Osana glance over her shoulder. Her friend wore an exasperated expression. “After everything you put yourself through today? For that alone, you deserve to stay.”
Osana huffed out a breath. “You saw the king’s face. He was mortified. I embarrassed him by coming here.”
“Aye, but he recovered swiftly enough.” Lora’s expression grew sly then. “He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
Osana’s chest constricted. This was not welcome news. “Even more reason to leave,” she replied, turning away so Lora would not see her embarrassment. “The bishop spoke true. I’ve been overly bold.”
Lora snorted. “That old crow.”
Osana pulled out another tunic from her pack and folded it. Despite her tense mood, a smile tugged at her mouth. Lora’s irreverence was comforting. She had even made the king’s captain soften his expression.
“He wasn’t the only one who glared at me,” Osana said after a long pause. “Did see the way those women weaving looked at me after the noon meal.”
“No worse than how Edlyn used to glare. At least none of them carries a personal grievance against you.”
Osana sighed and looked around the alcove. It was easily three times the size of the space she had occupied in Deogol’s hall. A large pile of furs for her dominated one corner, with another bed for Lora opposite. The scent of crushed lavender, for the herb had been scattered over the rushes underfoot, filled the alcove, and a single cresset burned on the walls. Beyond the heavy tapestry that shielded them from view, she could hear the murmur of voices as folk readied themselves to retire for the evening, the clang of pots as servants cleaned up, and the groan of the wind buffeting the tower walls.
“Do you want to stay here, Lora?” she asked, glancing over at her.
Lora met her gaze, her expression turning serious. “I’ll happily go wherever you do, Osana.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Lora shrugged. “Aye, I’d be happy to remain here, but if you’d truly prefer to travel to Jedworth, then so be it … only, you should give Bebbanburg a chance. At least wait the winter out. By spring, you might see things differently.”
Snow fell the first night of Osana’s arrival in Bebbanburg. She awoke the following morning to find a blanket of white covering the world. The chill seeped into the tower through the damp stone. Away from the four roaring fire pits, the cold drilled into her joints and numbed her fingers. Swathed in furs, Osana broke her fast with bread and broth, before she and Lora joined the group of women who spent their days spinning and weaving.
Osana picked up her distaff and a basket of wool, preparing to start work.
