He knew they all hoped he had reflected upon his decision overnight, that he had revised it. The look on Eldrida’s face warned him that she had not lost hope.
Aldfrith was about to disappoint her.
“Good morning, Lady Eldrida,” he greeted her, taking his seat at the head of the table. Argus flopped down at his feet in the hope that a stray crust might find him. A servant appeared at the king’s elbow, placing a plate of fresh bread and a cup of milk before him. Pots of freshly churned butter and honey dotted the table.
Yet Aldfrith had no appetite this morning. His stomach churned.
Not touching the food before him, he met the eye of Thorin, the warrior who led the Mercian party. The man stared back, his expression challenging.
Aldfrith shifted his gaze to Lady Eldrida then. “I'm sorry, but you have had a wasted trip,” he began. He had intended to approach the subject softly but suddenly found that he had no patience for it. “The bishop called for you without speaking to me first. I have no wish for a wife.”
Beside her, the Mercian warrior snorted. “You don't mince your words, milord.”
Aldfrith’s mouth twisted. “I don't see the point in doing so,” he admitted, bitterness edging his voice. “Although it seems that even when I speak plainly, folk willfully misunderstand me.”
“My uncle will be angry,” Eldrida spoke up then. Tears welled in her large, dark eyes. Her small mouth pursed as she struggled to contain her disappointment. The hope he had seen moments earlier drained from her face. “He will think you sent me away because you find me ugly. He will punish me.”
Aldfrith paused, struggling between guilt and irritation. Yet he was not about to be manipulated. “I shall write the king a letter,” he replied firmly. “I will explain my reasons. Do not worry—you will not be blamed.”
His answer did not please her. The girl’s pursed mouth flattened into a thin line.
It was as Aldfrith suspected. She had made a desperate attempt to change his mind. She had no fear of her uncle.
Irritation surged through Aldfrith. This was what he hated most about being king. Ever since he had worn the crown, folk did not see him as a man. He was an authority figure; folk came to him wanting something. They wanted a pardon, lands, weregild, or justice.
How he missed his days upon the isle of Iona, spent in the company of the monks. They had not wanted anything from him but his companionship. They talked to him because they liked him, not because they wanted a favor.
Aldfrith sat back in his chair, pushing aside the plate of bread. On the floor below him, Argus gave a soft whine, reminding him of his presence. With a sigh, Aldfrith stretched out his hand for a piece of bread and handed it down to his hound.
“You’ve all traveled far to reach us,” he said after a moment. “Please accept our hospitality, and stay a few days longer.”
“I think not, milord.” Thorin’s voice was wintry. “If you will not take Lady Eldrida as your wife, we will not remain at Bebbanburg. Prepare your letter in haste, for we depart at dawn tomorrow.”
Aldfrith nodded, secretly relieved. He wanted rid of these Mercians as much as they wished to leave him. The sooner the better.
All he wished for right now, was to be alone. He was aware of the prying eyes of his retainers and their wives, who surrounded him as he sat on the high seat. Their gazes tracked him, studying his face.
News of what had happened between him and Osana would have traveled quickly from one end of the fort to the other. Fortunately for her, Osana would be many furlongs distant by now—she would not have to suffer their whispers, sneers, and stares.
At the thought of her, Aldfrith’s throat constricted.
It was a mistake to dwell on Osana, for the feelings those thoughts roused made a sickening sense of desperation well within him.
He could not be near her, he could not speak to her, without a strong need consuming him. Aldfrith had nearly lost control again the evening before when they had spoken alone inside his alcove. He had felt himself weakening, for the sight of her standing near the hearth, the naked vulnerability in her eyes, had almost unraveled him.
But then she had asked him of his past.
After that, it had been easy to shut himself off from her. His past belonged to another life, another person. How hard he had tried to put it all behind him. Osana had risked reopening a wound that had taken years to fully heal.
Time rolled back, and he remembered the wreck he had been that day he had arrived upon Iona: young and full of desperation and hurt. That island, and the kind monks who lived there, had healed him. Living there had helped him wash the past away—yet it appeared that the walls he had built around his heart could not withstand this new life as king.
Ever since moving to Bebbanburg, they had slowly been crumbling. Now that Osana had left, he would have to painstakingly rebuild them.
Chapter Twenty-four
Alone
JEDWORTH WAS SMALLER than Osana had expected.
