Earthly Cares
THE WINTER PASSED quickly, and Solmonath slid into Hreðmonath—the third moon cycle of the year. The first spring bulbs started to appear on the meadows below Bebbanburg: snowdrops with their delicate white bonnets, and tiny crocuses and jonquils.
The days lengthened, and warmth returned to the sun. Osana found herself spending more and more time outdoors. She would often take her distaff or sewing outside, and sit working alone in the orchard. The bare branches of the fruit trees were developing buds now, promising a sea of delicate cream and white blossom to come. It gave Osana hope to see them; she always felt as if she was reborn in spring. The long bitter season weighed heavily upon her, and this year had been harder than most.
After that one lesson, and the stolen kiss, Osana had avoided Aldfrith. She tried not to think about that incident—or of him—but it was difficult when she caught glimpses of the king most days.
They were nearing the end of Hreðmonath when news arrived from Lindisfarena that Cuthbert was dead.
It came as a shock, yet Osana remembered how frail and weary the prior have looked upon his visit. Even so, the tidings sent waves of upset through the Great Hall. There were few in Bebbanburg now that followed the old gods. Most, Osana herself included, worshipped Christ. Cuthbert, and all the miracles attributed to him over the years, had become a local legend. The folk here had been proud to have such a holy man live so close. They had been proud of Lindisfarena and the work Cuthbert had done. The prior was one-of-a-kind; no other could replace him.
The heavy iron bell of Oswald’s church, just off the market square, rang for an entire morning after word arrived, its mournful song echoing out over the thatched rooftops of the fort.
Osana, who was picking up some items at the market, noted the despair on the faces around her. Two older women wept before the steps of the church, their sobs forming discordant music with the ringing bell. Even the vendors were distracted this morning, some muttering under their breath and fingering the wooden crucifixes they wore about their necks. A heavyset woman, selling bread and cakes where Osana had stopped to buy some treats to share with Lora, looked troubled.
“It will bode ill for Northumbria, this death.”
Osana frowned. “What do you mean?”
The woman's gaze met hers. “Many of us believe that Cuthbert laid a charm over this place. In the war against the Picts, no fighting or bloodshed reached Bebbanburg. He protected us.”
Osana held her gaze a moment but did not reply. She believed in Cuthbert's work, and in the good he had done, yet she could not bring herself to believe he was the protector of this land. Even so, the melancholy in the air this morning affected her.
Buying two buns crammed full of dried plums—to share with Lora later—Osana placed them in her basket and began the walk up the King’s Way toward the high gate. It had become a morning ritual that every few days either she or Lora would provide a treat to share together in the evening while they sat mending clothes.
Osana entered the Great Hall to find an excited crowd was gathering around the high seat. Lora, her blond curls bouncing as she bobbed up and down trying to catch the conversation in the midst, was at the back of the group. Upon the dais a few yards away, the king and the bishop were discussing something intently.
Bishop Wilfrid had timed his latest visit to Bebbanburg well, for he had arrived from Inhrypum the night before—just in time to receive the news of Cuthbert’s passing.
At this distance, Osana thought it looked as if the conversation between the king and the bishop teetered on the verge of descending into an argument.
“What is it?” Osana reached Lora’s side, nudging her with her basket.
Lora glanced back, smiling when she saw Osana had returned. “It appears that the monks on Lindisfarena plan to bury Cuthbert today. The bishop wants him and Aldfrith to go alone to the burial, but the king has decided to organize a mourning party to travel to the isle to pay their respects.”
“Do you wish to go?” Osana asked, incredulous. As far as she was aware, her friend, although not vocal about it, was still a follower of the old ways. She had seen the amulet of Freya that Lora kept by her furs and the small carven figure of Woden that had once belonged to her husband.
Lora shook her head. “No … but I'm curious to see who they will let go.” Lora paused a moment, her gaze narrowing. “Will you join them?”
Osana shrugged. “I suppose I would … if they permitted women.”
Truthfully, she did want to go. She had always wanted to visit that rocky, windswept isle, to see where the great Cuthbert had lived and prayed.
Lora huffed a moment. “Why should women be excluded? You worship the same God as men.” A wicked light shone in her friend’s blue eyes. “Well then … make sure you get to the front and put your hand up.” With that, Lora placed her hand between Osana’s shoulder blades and shoved. Osana stumbled forward into the crowd, almost tripping. Righting herself, she then steered herself forward using her basket as a battering ram. One or two folk cast dark looks over their shoulders at her, but still moved aside to let her through.
A moment later Osana was standing at the foot of the high seat.
Still clutching her basket grimly, Osana silently cursed Lora.
Wicked vixen. This wasn't what I had in mind.
Of course, after such an entrance, the king noticed her. He glanced up from where he had been talking with Wilfrid, his eyes narrowing.
“Lady Osana,” he greeted her formally. Those had been his first words to her in many days. They were little more than strangers to each other now. Osana could almost believe that their earlier friendship had never happened, that it belonged to another life.
“Lord Aldfrith,” she replied, dipping her head and curtseying. “I hear you are organizing a group to go to Lindisfarena … I’d like to join you.”
Her own boldness shocked her.
