Osana stood upon the high seat and faced the King of Northumbria. Dressed simply, yet richly, Aldfrith was distractingly handsome today. A black leather vest studded in gold and iron covered his chest, leaving his finely muscled arms bare. His father’s fine grey wolfskin cloak hung from his shoulders, clasped by a gleaming amber brooch. He wore doeskin breeches and long dark boots.
Aldfrith looked down at her, his expression soft, his eyes tender.
Finally, they were about to be wed.
There had been moments, as she lay awake in her alcove listening to the soft sound of Lora’s breathing, when she had worried it would never happen. And yet here she was, dressed in a soft green gown that fitted her curves snugly, with meadow daisies woven through her hair.
The aroma of roasting meat drifted through the hall as the final preparations were made for the feast that would follow the handfasting. A murmur of voices surrounded them as the folk of Bebbanburg—both those who resided within the inner palisade, and many of those who lived in the tightly packed streets beyond—pushed into the Great Hall.
Osana breathed in the excitement surrounding her. Despite her fears, the mood was joyous. There would be a handful of folk among the crowd, Mildryth and Eldflaed among them, who watched her with hard eyes, but most people who jostled for position on the floor below the high seat seemed in high spirits. Few folk did not like a handfasting.
Lora and Cerdic stood nearby, with the king’s most loyal retainers. Lora and Osana shared a look before her friend grinned. Beside Lora, Cerdic was smiling, his arm draped protectively around her shoulders.
Osana shifted her attention back to Aldfrith. He gave her a melting look in return that made her breathing hitch. Tonight they would lie together as husband and wife.
They stood before Oswald, who hunched between them like a trapped hare. The priest’s face was solemn, his gaze pained. He cleared his throat and stepped forward, a length of linen in his hands.
The hum of voices around them died. Expectation charged the air.
“The union of man and wife is a union of two souls,” Oswald began, holding the ribbon aloft. “This cord is not permanent but perishable. It is a reminder that all things of the material eventually return to the earth, unlike the bond and the connection that is love, which is eternal.” The priest’s voice, although low, carried over the now silent hall. Oswald’s gaze darted up to Aldfrith and then Osana. “Please join your right hands.”
They did as bid. Osana’s breathing quickened as Aldfrith wove his fingers through hers and squeezed. Then Oswald stepped close to them and started to wind the ribbon around their joined hands. And as he wrapped the ribbon, he spoke the words that would bind them.
“With this cloth I bind your souls
May you know nothing but happiness from this day forward.
May the road rise to meet you
May the wind be always at your back
May the warm rays of sun fall upon your home
And may the hand of a friend always be near.
May green be the grass you walk on,
May blue be the skies above you,
May pure be the joys that surround you,
May true be the hearts that love you.”
Oswald finished speaking, and a deep hush fell in the hall. The priest, who had now lost his cowed expression, straightened his spine, his gaze returning to Aldfrith and Osana. “I now—”
“Wait! This handfasting is a farce—it must not take place!”
A harsh voice carried across the hall.
Unfortunately, it was a voice that Osana had come to know well. She tore her gaze from Aldfrith’s and let it travel across the sea of heads between them and the heavy doors that led out into the entrance hall.
There, framed in the doorway, was a tall robed figure.
Bishop Wilfrid’s face was the color of liver, his gaze livid. Even at this distance, Osana could feel the weight of his rage.
“This ceremony must stop,” he roared, spittle flying. “I name the bride a ‘wicce’. She has ensnared the king, but now this evil business will end.”
The vehemence in those words caused ice to wash over Osana, dousing her excitement and joy in an instant. Such hate. Yet as she watched him, she realized that Wilfrid’s wrath was not aimed at her but at Aldfrith. His gaze speared the king, dislike carved into his gaunt face.
