The humor drained from Raedwulf’s face. At thirty-five winters he was still a virile, comely man: big and broad-shouldered with a mane of golden hair and a short beard. She had been captivated when she had first seen him. He had been the ealdorman’s eldest son, a brash, cocky warrior who had won her heart without even trying.
Perhaps she had been too easy to impress. Or maybe it was the fact that she had loved the aura of danger and unpredictability in him.
“I was only teasing,” he said after a moment. “You are so prickly these days.”
Osana inhaled deeply. Her husband had all the subtlety and grace of a charging boar.
They had reached the foot of the causeway now, and the fort rose overhead blocking out the sky.
“It’s my fault,” Raedwulf continued, the good humor returning to his voice. “I’ve been away too often of late securing our borders. I’ve clearly been neglecting my wife.” He flashed her a rakish grin. “Tonight, after the handfasting, I shall give you the humping you so obviously need.”
Osana shot him a look of mute disbelief. How typical of him to think that a night in the furs would cure the tension between them. Her husband was a lusty man and a demanding lover. In the early years of their marriage, when she had still found him exciting, she had enjoyed their lovemaking. Yet these days, when she lay under him, she felt numb. Afterward she was merely relieved it was over.
Unable to summon a response, she turned away from Raedwulf and urged her palfrey forward. They clattered up the final distance to the causeway, under the low gate, and into Bebbanburg.
“Are all the ealdormen here?”
“Aye, sire.”
Aldfrith, King of Northumbria, turned to his personal guard, Cerdic. Tall and broad, with brown hair cropped close to his scalp, the warrior met his eye.
“I’ve heard their rumblings of discontent,” Aldfrith continued. “Have a word with them before the ceremony … reassure each man that I will be holding a council tomorrow morning. If they have any concerns about the security of Northumbria, they are to raise them then.”
Cerdic nodded. The warrior said little but observed much, a useful trait in an advisor. Aldfrith had much to thank the man for, as over the past months Cerdic had provided invaluable guidance, especially when it came to dealing with the ealdormen. “Wise tactic, sire … they are bound to cause trouble after the ceremony otherwise.”
Aldfrith’s mouth thinned. “Aye … that was my concern too.”
He had only been king a short while, but already his ealdormen—the men who oversaw tracts of his kingdom in his stead—had become demanding.
“Your betrothed awaits, sire.” Bishop Wilfrid’s strident voice interrupted Aldfrith and his captain. “Lord Aldfrith … they are ready for you now.”
The king tensed.Aldfrith.He still had trouble getting used to that name. It had wiped away his old life, his old identity. It did not belong to him. Aldfrith cast his gaze over his shoulder at where a tall angular man with a haughty face and intense dark eyes stood. Irritation flickered within him. Ever since his arrival at Bebbanburg, the bishop had become a persistent, and unwelcome, second shadow.
With a nod to the king, and to the bishop, Cerdic exited the alcove, leaving Aldfrith and Wilfrid alone.
Aldfrith grimaced. “I don’t know why I couldn’t meet her first, Father Wilfrid.”
“There was no time,” the bishop replied. “Now that the princess has arrived from Wessex, you must be wed.”
“Aye.” Aldfrith adjusted the wolfskin cloak about his shoulders that had once belonged to his father and glanced down at the amber brooch fastening it. “But I’d have preferred to get to know her first.”
Wilfrid favored him with a patronizing smile. “Cuthburh is a charming and beautiful young woman … but better still she comes from nobility and is exceedingly pious. She will make an excellent wife for you, milord. She will be a good influence.”
Aldfrith did not miss the sting in those last words. He knew the bishop disapproved of the new king’s upbringing in the north, his time spent with the monks on Iona. Only a day earlier, he had given the priest Oswald a tongue-lashing for the wording of the prayer he had spoken before supper. They worshipped the same God as he did, but Wilfrid looked down his nose at the manner in which those of the north followed Christianity.
“Very well.” Aldfrith brushed past the bishop and made for the heavy hanging that sheltered him from the rest of the hall. Beyond he could hear the rise and fall of excited voices—folk from all over Northumbria had traveled here for his handfasting. He was about to be at the center of a public spectacle. “Let’s get this over with.”
“There he is!” The woman beside Osana hissed in her ear. “The new king … isn’t he handsome?”
Osana gave the woman, whose breath smelled of onion, a polite smile and glanced over at where the king had just stopped before the heah-setl—the high seat.
Her gaze settled upon him. She had to admit the woman was right. She had not expected Aldfrith of Northumbria to be handsome—for both his half-brother, Ecgfrith, and his father, Oswiu, had been too sharp-featured and sly-faced to be named so.
Yet the new king was taller than both of his dead kin, and better looking than either of them, with short, ash-blond hair and sensitively drawn features. Folk were calling him ‘the philosopher king’, for before coming here, he had lived a hermit’s life upon some distant isle.
Osana’s gaze lingered upon the new king. She had expected a pale, weedy man of middling years, yet the man before her was no older than her and held himself with unconscious masculine grace as he stood awaiting his bride.
Aware she was staring, but not caring as everyone here was observing the king keenly, she took in his rich dress: the deep blue of his tunic that matched his eyes, and the fine gold edging. He wore a magnificent wolfskin cloak about his broad shoulders, and doeskin breeches clad long, athletic legs. Osana could not envisage this man bent over a table, scribbling upon vellum.
