Aldfrith strode into the Great Hall, his mind set upon an evening of solitude and a cup of strong wine. He would call for the iron tub in the corner of his alcove to be filled with steaming water, and bathe. He would see no one, speak to no one, and gather his thoughts.
However, upon entering the hall, his plans dissolved like wood smoke carried away by a strong wind.
He had visitors.
Aldfrith’s gaze swept to the high seat, where two leather-clad warriors, their bare arms gleaming with bronze and silver rings, and a small solemn-faced girl with dark hair, sat waiting for him.
Shucking off his cloak, Aldfrith handed it to a waiting servant. “Who’s that?” he asked the young man.
“Lady Eldrida, sire … the King of Mercia’s niece. She and her escort arrived just after the noon meal.”
Aldfrith frowned. “Why are they here?”
He glanced over at Cerdic, who shrugged. “I didn’t know they were coming, milord.”
Someone cleared their throat behind them, and Aldfrith glanced over his shoulder to see Bishop Wilfrid. Unlike during the walk back from Lindisfarena, when the bishop had worn a look of scorn and outraged dignity, he appeared sheepish now.
“Lord Aldfrith.” He dipped his head. “I invited them.”
Aldfrith held his gaze. “Why would you do that?”
Bishop Wilfrid drew himself up, inhaling deeply. “You need a good wife, sire.”
Aldfrith closed his eyes for a moment and reined in his temper. This day was certainly one he would never forget. He reopened his eyes, fixing his attention on Wilfrid once more. “But I didn’t ask you to invite this woman here. I told you that I have no wish for a wife.”
Silence fell. Aldfrith was not the only one looking at the bishop. Oswald was wide-eyed, his gaze flicking between the king and the bishop, while Cerdic was glaring at Wilfrid, looking like he wanted to reach out and throttle him.
Aldfrith shared the feeling. He was naturally slow to anger, having seen what uncontrollable emotion did to people. Yet he was furious now. He felt as if he had no free will. Everything he did was under scrutiny. He could not even look at a woman without folk like Wilfrid making a judgment. He had not planned on making love to Osana at the monastery, but the fact that the bishop had knowingly walked in on them, to humiliate them both, made cold rage kindle in the pit of his belly.
However, seeing that the bishop had gone behind his back to arrange a marriage was even worse.
Wilfrid squirmed slightly under the scrutiny. Two high spots of color rose on his gaunt cheeks. “It’s for your own good, milord,” he said, after a long silence. Aldfrith had to admit that the man had balls. “Lady Eldrida is a pious maid, fresh from the nunnery. You will be her first and last. Surely, after today, you see why you must wed? The widow has done her wicked work. You need a wife to keep such women at bay.” His voice rose as he ended his last sentence, and everyone surrounding them grew still. Aldfrith realized then that they were not looking at the bishop but at a point behind him, where the last of the returning group from Lindisfarena were entering the hall.
Aldfrith turned to see Osana in the doorway.
Her face, framed by fur, was ashen, her hazel-green eyes huge. She had heard every word.
Osana had not thought that this day could get any worse—but she was wrong.
Upon stepping inside the hall, she had heard the bishop slander her to everyone. Humiliation made her stomach tighten into a hard ball. Even so, she had noticed there was a party waiting for Aldfrith upon the high seat. She had also heard the tail-end of the argument between the king and the bishop. She knew what Wilfrid had done. And she did not blame Aldfrith for being angry with him over it.
The king loomed over Wilfrid, his face hard, his eyes blazing. The bishop was not a small man, but he seemed to shrink now under the force of Aldfrith’s simmering rage.
Osana just wished the ground would open and swallow her into its maw. Drawing in a deep breath, she inched past the king and the bishop. Her alcove was to the right, just a handful of yards away. Never had a destination held so much appeal.
Across the hall, Lora was stirring a pot of stew. Her friend’s face was tense with concern as she observed the unfolding scene in front of the entrance.
Was there anyone here who had not witnessed her humiliation?
Osana’s throat closed, her vision blurring. She’d had enough. The sooner she fled this place the better. However, she was halfway to her alcove when the bark of Aldfrith’s voice stopped her in her tracks.
“Osana … wait.”
Heart pounding, she turned back and stood there, eyes downcast, waiting for his command. She could not bring herself to meet his gaze, could not speak.
“I would speak with you briefly,” he said after a pause. “Go to my alcove, and wait for me … please.”
Osana hesitated, torn between doing as bid and disobeying him. She could not be alone with him—not after what had happened at the monastery.
