Aldfrith stretched, a rueful smile creeping across his face. “I sometimes have trouble sleeping.”
“So, it’s not Prior Cuthbert’s visit?”
His gaze widened at her directness, and Osana resisted the urge to bite her lip. Raedwulf had always chastised her for speaking boldly. She had not wanted to anger the king; she was just curious to understand the man who wore the crown. In just her short time at Bebbanburg, he had become a fascination to her. He seemed both wise and insecure, resolute and lost.
“Aye,” he huffed out his response after a pause. “Cuthbert was only giving me wise counsel, but he doesn’t understand me. I’m not my father … or my brother.”
Osana raised an eyebrow. “I think he’ll be grateful you’re not.” News had reached Hagustaldes of how Cuthbert had begged Ecgfrith not to go to war against the Pictish warlord Bridei mac Beli. The king had ignored him at his peril. “Yours is a peaceful reign … is that not better for the kingdom?”
Aldfrith raked a hand through his short blond hair. “I don’t have the right character to rule. I’m a scholar … that’s all I ever wanted from life.”
Osana moved over to the hearth and warmed her chilled fingers over the dancing flames. She was aware of Aldfrith’s gaze tracking her. He was still standing by his desk.
“I like this room,” she murmured, glancing around at the pitted stone walls, where two clay cressets burned. A wooden shelf above the king’s writing table held two leather-bound volumes. Osana’s gaze widened. “Are thosebooks?”
Aldfrith’s mouth quirked. “Aye … a parting gift from the monks on Iona. Would you like to see one?”
Osana nodded. She had heard that monks knew their letters and spent long days creating beautifully illustrated pages.
Aldfrith retrieved one of the volumes and handed it to her. It was heavy, and she opened it with trepidation, careful not to damage the spine. Her breath caught as she slowly leafed through the vellum sheets: intricate drawings of the lives of saints, accompanied by columns of beautiful calligraphy.
“How I wish I could read,” she whispered.
“I can teach you.”
Osana’s head snapped up. Only monks, scholars, and a handful of nuns could actually read. “You would?”
He gave her a slow smile, one that made her belly flutter. “Aye … how about tomorrow afternoon for your first lesson.”
Cuthbert did not look well at all the following morning.
His face was pale, his eyes watery, as he nursed a cup of weak broth. He would touch no food, not even a piece of dry bread.
“Shall I send for a healer, Father?” Oswald asked. He had been watching the prior with an anxious gaze ever since Cuthbert had shuffled from his alcove.
Cuthbert shook his head. “There’s no need. No healer can help me now.”
At the head of the table, Aldfrith stiffened. The desolate look in the prior’s eyes alarmed him. Cuthbert spoke as a doomed man.
Seeing his expression, Cuthbert’s small pursed mouth curved. “Don’t look so horrified, Lord Aldfrith,” he said quietly. “From the day we’re born, we’re all dying … some of us just know our time is near.”
The admission made Oswald suck in his breath and caused the two monks who had accompanied Cuthbert to exchange nervous glances.
Aldfrith leaned toward the prior, frowning. “Maybe you should remain at Bebbanburg until the weather warms. You’d be more comfortable here.”
Cuthbert shook his head, resolute. “The Farne Isles are where my heart belongs, and where I wish to die. I will return to Lindisfarena and end my days there.”
There was no fear in the man’s voice, no self-pity, just a gentle acceptance and a dignity that moved Aldfrith. He hoped when his own end neared, he could show such strength. “I’m sorry about yesterday, Father,” he said after a pause, suddenly regretting he had been so harsh with a dying man. “I know your counsel was well-meant.”
Cuthbert’s gaze held his. “Aye … but that doesn’t mean you will take it.”
Aldfrith responded with a wry smile. “My mother once said I’ve the stubbornness of an ox.”
The prior’s smile widened. “A trait you no doubt inherited from your father. Do you remember Oswiu?”
Aldfrith’s smile faded. “He left when I was a babe. I have no memory of him at all.”
“You have his presence, his quiet strength,” Cuthbert observed. “He too was a man who knew his own mind. Yet you are different to him in many ways.”
