Aldfrith almost smiled at the way Wulfred’s mouth gaped and at Edwin’s slack-jawed stare.
Wulfred was the first to recover. “Sire … you cannot wedher.”
Aldfrith quirked an eyebrow, stepping up onto the high seat with Osana at his side. She clung to his arm, her fingers digging into his flesh. “Ican, and as soon as the priest arrives, Iwill.”
“Do the other ealdormen know of this?” Edwin growled.
Aldfrith met his gaze unflinchingly. Anger was starting to curl up from the pit of his belly. He was tired of these men treating him as if he was their lesser. “They don’t need to know,” he replied. Now that he stood upon the high seat he was at an advantage. He was nearly half a foot taller than either of the ealdormen; both of them had to raise their chins to eyeball him.
His cousin locked gazes with him. It was a dominant, challenging stare that made Aldfrith’s hackles rise.
“I take it there’s a reason you are both in Bebbanburg?” Aldfrith asked. “Let us speak of that.”
Edwin of Gefrin folded his heavily muscled arms across his chest. “Aye … we’re here to see what you’ve done about rebuilding this kingdom’s army.”
Aldfrith watched him, feigning calm when inside he was beginning to seethe. Would Edwin ever let this subject rest? “Are we at war?”
His cousin sneered. “This period of peace will not last … it never does.”
“Edwin has spoken to me of his concerns, and I agree with him,” Wulfred added, “You need to start gathering a fyrd: a king’s army. Spears and horsemen who will ride against our enemies with only a few days’ notice.”
“A king only needs to call upon a fyrd in desperate times,” Aldfrith countered. “I’d prefer to let the men of this land tend to their fields, their families.”
“A king needs to think of his kingdom,” Edwin interrupted, his face reddening. “And that’s why you don’t wed who you want. You wed to make Northumbria strong.”
Aldfrith clenched his jaw; his cousin had slyly managed to bring the argument full-circle—back to his impending handfasting to Osana.
“Northumbria is already strong,” he replied. “The kings who have gone before me have seen to that. We have no quarrel with our neighbors, and I have no need to wed in order to weave peace. The East Angles and the Mercians leave us alone these days.”
Wulfred of Catraeth snorted. “Complacency is the first step to defeat. Next you'll be giving what land still rests to us in the north to Bridei mac Beli.”
Aldfrith stepped forward, releasing Osana’s arm as he did so. “Enough, Wulfred.” His glare swept over both men. “I never met my half-brother, Ecgfrith, but I do know he wed twice in the best interests of his kingdom and died a bitter angry man as a result.” His voice carried across the hall. “You forget, I already wed a princess of Wessex and learned just how empty a loveless union can be. It rots a man’s soul. Do you think Ecgfrith might not have rushed headlong into war if he had not been so bitter and full of rancor at the world?”
Silence followed his words, and so Aldfrith filled it. His blood was up, his hands clenched by his sides. He would not be caged, nor dictated to. He would break the jaw of the next man to question him. “Listen to me well, for I shall not repeat myself,” he growled. “Ishall decide whom I wed … and no one else.”
Aldfrith glanced over at Osana then, noting how pale and strained her face was. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, managing a smile. “The priest will be here soon.”
At that moment the doors to the Great Hall opened, and Cerdic strode in. However, the priest was not following him. Aldfrith watched him approach; his stomach clenched at the serious look on the warrior's face.
“Oswald's away,” Cerdic informed him.
Aldfrith’s belly dropped. “Where?”
“He’s gone to visit Bishop Wilfrid in Inhrypum.”
Aldfrith swallowed a vicious curse. It suddenly felt as if all the gods—the old and the new—had turned against him. “Take some men and ride fast to Inhrypum,” he ordered. “Get Oswald but tell the bishop nothing.”
Cerdic stared back at him a moment before nodding. He then turned on his heel and strode out of the Great Hall, the doors booming shut behind him.
Wulfred of Catraeth broke the heavy silence that followed. “So the bishop’s not to know?”
Aldfrith glanced his way and frowned. He did not like the sly look in the man's eyes. “No,” he replied. “This handfasting is none of his business.” His frown deepened as he gave up all pretense at civility. “Nor is it yours.”
“What do you think?”
Osana glanced up to see that Lora was holding up a green gown. It was a simple dress, with long bell-like sleeves and a hem embroidered with gold thread. “This belonged to the Lady Cuthburh,” Lora continued. “She was as thin as a reed with no bosom, so I have let the dress out at the bust and adjusted the seams slightly; it should fit you perfectly now.”
Osana nodded and forced a smile. In truth, she had a lump in her throat, and it felt as if a boulder had lodged itself in the pit of her belly.
