None of the brothers uttered a word; they all knew of Flann’s identity but would let him be the one to reveal it.
Flann inhaled sharply. He had always worried that one day his heritage would catch up with him. He stepped forward, and the monks moved aside to let him pass. When he stood before the priest, he met his eye. “I’m Flann Fina.”
Oswald’s gaze widened, and Flann resisted a rueful smile. He imagined the priest had expected a different-looking man. His mother, Fina, had been a dark Irish beauty, but Flann had taken after his father. He looked like an Angle: tall and blond. The only physical trait he had taken from his mother was her midnight blue eyes.
“You’re Aldfrith of Northumbria?” Oswald’s gaze swept over him, taking in his homespun tunic, goatskin leggings, and bare feet. Flann knew he would be wondering why this half-brother to the king dressed as a peasant.
“Aye,” Flann replied, his tone cool. “What do you want from me?”
Oswald took a step forward. “Your brother fought the Picts at Nechtansmere and fell. Northumbria no longer rules Pictland—King Bridei does. As Ecgfrith’s brother, you are next in line to the throne.” Oswald paused here. “I’ve come to bring you home.”
A chill settled over Flann, dimming the warmth of the summer’s day.
This peaceful isle was his home. Even if he was uncertain about taking his vows, he wished to be left here in solitude, alone with his chores, his studies, his writing, and his reflection. Here, he lived far from the noise, cruelty, and pettiness of the world.
“Iamhome,” he replied after a few long moments, although deep in his gut he knew those words would not be enough. He should have known after his conversation with the prior during the noon meal that today would be a turning point in his life. Whatever happened from this moment on, things could not stay the same.
Oswald’s answering smile was not without sympathy. “No … my lord. Bebbanburg is where you belong.”
Chapter Two
A Royal Handfasting
Bebbanburg, Kingdom of Northumbria
Britannia (England)
Three months later …
“I hear thebride is a great beauty.”
Osana inclined her head toward her husband and raised a delicate eyebrow. “Where did you hear that?”
Raedwulf, Ealdorman of Hagustaldes, favored his wife with an indulgent look. “Men talk in the mead hall, my sweeting. Some hail from Wessex and have seen Princess Cuthburh in the flesh. They say she’s slender as a willow reed, with hair the color of sea foam and eyes the blue of a summer’s morn.”
Osana ground her jaw and feigned disinterest. “Men in their cups are known to exaggerate,” she pointed out. “She may be plain and mousy for all you know.”
Raedwulf chuckled. “We shall soon see for ourselves, wife.” He gave Osana another patronizing look. “No need to be jealous. You’re still a handsome woman … even if you’re past your prime.”
Osana dug her heels into the furry sides of her palfrey, sending it on ahead. Raedwulf’s laughter rang out behind her, and she inhaled deeply to quell the ire rising within her.
They rode the last stretch toward Bebbanburg, the great northern stronghold bristling against the eastern horizon and a flat, blue-grey expanse of sea. The sight of its bulk—wooden palisades and four huge guard towers at each corner—filled Osana with relief. Finally, three days on the road with her husband had come to an end.
The road leading east cut through a patchwork of tilled fields, where cottars toiled under the late afternoon sun. It had been a hot summer, the warmest Osana could remember, and the sun had tanned the peasants’ skin golden. A crisp, salt-laced breeze blew in from the sea, a welcome respite from the day’s heat.
“Come now, no need to take offense, wife.”
Raedwulf had ridden up alongside her once more. The grin on his handsome face only served to make her anger continue to simmer, reminding Osana why she rarely conversed with her husband these days. Perhaps she was over-sensitive, or maybe she imagined it, but it seemed as every word he spoke to her of late was a barely concealed barb at her failure as a wife.
Twenty-eight winters old … and barren.
They had been wed twelve years now, but she had never given him a child.
Osana wanted to blame Raedwulf, but she knew he had sired at least three bastard children in Hagustaldes, all to local wenches. No—the fault lay with her.
What good was a wife if she could not bear a man sons?
“I’m not angry,” Osana lied before she met his eye, “or jealous. It’s just that you make me feel old and useless at times.”
