The women—thegns’ wives—did not give Osana a warm welcome. Even Eldflaed, the woman who had been so chatty with Osana during her last visit to the fort, ignored her. The morning stretched out, and Osana started to enjoy being left in peace. As Lora had pointed out, there was no strong ill-feeling toward her, only a watchful distrust.
If she worked hard and minded her manners, Osana would be accepted in time.
Across the hall, she spotted the king emerging from his alcove and cross to the high seat, where he broke his fast with his men. She watched them talking, glad that Aldfrith had not seen her. It was best she remained a shadow here: out of sight, beneath notice.
The king did not linger at the table long. After a short discussion with his companions, he rose from the high seat and strode from the hall, a grey wolfhound loping at his side. His men followed him.
The morning passed slowly, and after a long spell winding wool onto a distaff, Osana put her spindle aside and went outdoors while Lora went to help the other servants prepare the noon meal.
The sting of the icy air hit Osana across the face as she gingerly made her way down the slippery steps to the yard below. The wind had died, and it had started to snow again, gentle fluttering flakes that drifted down from an ashen sky.
She turned her face up to it, enjoying the feel of the snowflakes kissing her skin. A moment later a group of horses rode under the high gate into the yard.
The king led them. Snow frosted his mantle and blond hair. His hound followed close behind, tongue lolling. Aldfrith carried a quiver of arrows and a longbow over one shoulder, as did many of his men. A boar carcass was slung over the back of one of the horses.
Standing there in the midst of the yard, Osana felt dangerously exposed. She looked around for somewhere to hide, but it was too late. Aldfrith had already seen her.
He pulled up his horse just a couple of yards away from Osana and swung down off its back, his boots sinking into a foot of snow.
“Good day, Lady Osana,” he greeted her.
“A chill morning for a hunt, milord,” she replied.
He smiled at that before gesturing to the boar that dripped crimson blood onto the milk-white snow. “It’s easier to spot prey in the snow.” He reached down and patted his hound’s head, for the beast had sat down at his feet. “However, Argus nearly got himself gored.”
Osana pulled her fur mantle close, casting an eye over the dog. “I’ve never heard a hound called by that name before.”
“It’s a name from my mother’s people,” he replied. “Argus is a mythical creature with a hundred eyes. A good name for a sighthound, I think.”
“Aye, the beast has his uses,” the king’s captain, who had entered the stable yard behind Aldfrith, added. He dismounted from his horse and nudged the dog with his foot. “But for the most part, he just takes up space before the fire … and farts.”
Osana laughed, the sound echoing out across the still morning. Shocked at the loud sound of her mirth, she clapped her hand across her mouth. Yet when she glanced over at Aldfrith, she saw he was smiling.
Their gazes locked and held for a long, drawn-out heartbeat.
Lora trudged through the snow, her fur-lined boots sinking through the pristine crust. The air was so cold outdoors that it stung her face. In one hand she carried a wooden bucket, while with the other she did her best to pull her fur mantle close.
“Thunor’s balls,” she muttered. It was one of her favorite curses—one that her father had taught her. “Any colder and my breath will freeze.”
She walked toward the stone well that sat on the edge of the stable yard, just beyond the orchard. She and Osana needed some fresh water for their alcove, for washing.
Crossing the yard, she saw men leading out horses from the stables while the stalls were mucked out. One of the warriors—the man who had winked at her the day prior—was checking the horses’ hooves.
He had been the first person to greet them upon their arrival at the Great Tower. She could not recall his name, but there was something about him that fascinated her. He wore an intimidating expression most of the time, and yet she had seen yesterday that he had a dry sense of humor. It had been a while since a man had made her laugh—not since Broga.
Lora’s gaze slid over the warrior, taking in the breadth of his leather-clad shoulders and chest, and the strength in his arms that gleamed with armrings. Not since Broga had a man even drawn her eye, yet this one did.
So intent was she on staring that Lora failed to notice the patch of ice that spread out around the well, where the snow had frozen solid. The moment her booted foot stepped upon it, her legs flew out from under her.
With a scream, Lora fell onto her back, the bucket flying from her hand.
“Cods,” she muttered as she struggled to right herself. She had sunk into the snow and was now cast like a sheep. Her face flamed; she hoped none of the warriors outside the stables had seen her tumble. She needed to get to her feet before one of them did.
Too late.
A shadow fell over her, and a deep male voice intruded. “Are you hurt?”
Lora looked up into laughing male eyes, heat rising up her neck when she realized it was the warrior she had just been staring at.
