Her soft lips. Her sweet taste.
Enough. Concentrate.
Seeing the mutinous look upon his cousin’s face, Aldfrith knew he had to keep his wits about him. Edwin of Gefrin was a sharp, blunt-tongued man who knew how to manipulate others.
He stepped up onto the high seat, and the ealdorman gracelessly heaved himself to his feet and bowed. The gesture was rushed, bordering on disrespectful. However, Aldfrith let it pass; he did not care much for formalities, although in Edwin the slight grated.
“Wes hal, Edwin.” He nodded at the ealdorman and sank into his chair at the head of the table. “What brings you to Bebbanburg?”
A servant appeared at his elbow with a jug of mead and poured him a cup. Wordlessly, Edwin thrust out his own to be refilled before turning his gaze upon the king.
“Concerns, sire … grave ones.”
Aldfrith frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Northumbria still has no army. Where is our fyrd?”
Aldfrith let out a long breath. He could not believe Edwin had again traveled all this way to berate him about his army. It seemed the only thing his cousin thought about. Every time they met, he repeated the same complaint. “I don’t need to gather a fyrd, Edwin,” he replied, his voice flat. “Northumbria isn’t at war.”
“Aethelred of Mercia is strengthening his garrisons to the north of his kingdom,” Edwin growled.
“And?”
Edwin gave him a withering look. “He’s clearly planning something.”
Aldfrith clenched his jaw. He was not in the mood for this. “I’m on good terms with King Aethelred. There’s no trouble between our kingdoms.”
The ealdorman’s mouth drew up. “You can’t trust a Mercian. Thousands of our warriors have died upon their blades over the years.”
“As have thousands of theirs.”
Edwin scowled at him, his gaze narrowing. He was clearly unconvinced; this was an argument between them that would not easily be resolved. And yet Aldfrith sensed this complaint was merely a shield. The man’s resentment toward him hung over them like a fug of smoke.
It is not an army you want but the crown. If Aldfrith had not been alive to succeed Ecgfrith, Edwin would have taken the throne.
It must gall him terribly.
He was not without sympathy for Edwin or his frustrations. Edwin was an ambitious man who had been thwarted. Yet his cousin’s belligerence put Aldfrith on edge. The man seemed to think the king should follow his counsel unquestioningly. He did not like being obstructed.
I must be wary of him.
Lora knew Cerdic was headed her way. The determined set of his shoulders, and the way his gaze bored into her, made his destination clear.
Putting down the washing board and cake of lye she was using, Lora rose to her feet to greet him. He was a tall man, and she did not want him looming over her.
Cerdic was a distraction; he made her feel an odd restlessness. After losing Broga, she had felt sad and empty for a long while. Was she even ready to give her heart to another? She liked Cerdic, but she barely knew him. Perhaps it was better to keep him at arm’s length.
The grim look on his face now unsettled her.
Lora dried her hands on her apron as she watched him cover the last handful of yards to the well where she stood. A basket of her and Osana’s tunics sat at her feet. She was halfway through washing them.
“Good afternoon,” she greeted the warrior when he drew up before her.
“Wes hal,” he rumbled, dipping his chin in greeting.
They stood on the edge of the yard, near where Lora had slipped in the snow. The snow had gone now, leaving mud in its wake. It was a sunny but chill afternoon. Lora could feel the kiss of the sun on her back. In another moon, its touch would have more heat.
“Why the serious expression?” she asked, injecting a light-hearted tone into her voice. “You look the bearer of ill tidings.”
