Nightfall till Daybreak (The Kingdom of the East Angles Book 2) (2 page)

Chapter One

Three days later

Spring, 629 A.D.

Kingdom of the East Angles,
Britannia

Freya gently peeled a piece of lichen off a rock and placed it
in her basket. Straightening her aching back, she inhaled the briny air deep
into her lungs and gazed out to sea. A cold breeze whipped her long dark-red
hair around her face and snagged at her shawl.

Despite the chill, it was a beautiful day to be gathering
lichen for her mother’s herbal remedies; clear and bright with white billowy
clouds scudding across the sky. She stood on the edge of a flat landscape
dominated by a huge sky. The North Sea glittered like beaten bronze this
morning and waves foamed against the pebbly beach. To the north, stretched an
endless shingle shore, and although a low bluff blocked her view to the south,
Freya knew that the mouth to the Woodbridge Haven estuary lay beyond.

Freya’s bare feet sank into the shingle as she continued her
way along the shoreline. Humming gently to herself, Freya went about collecting
the lichen; carefully peeling it off rocks with a small bone handled knife and
placing each precious piece in her basket.

Eventually, her basket was a third full but despite her aching
back, Freya was reluctant to return home just yet. An afternoon of weaving
awaited her; Freya’s most hated chore. She had time for a short dip in the sea.

During the summer, Freya often stripped and swam naked here,
even though the sea’s chill took her breath away. Today it was far too cold for
such things but she still wanted to feel the salt-water on her skin. Putting
her basket aside, Freya hiked her sleeveless shift and woolen over-dress up
around her hips and slid down the steep shingle bank to where the water sucked
against the shore.

Freya let out a shriek as the cold bit into her flesh.
Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to wade forward till the surf foamed
against her thighs. The power of the North Sea awed her, as always. It was
rarely a tranquil sea, and hardly ever blue. Yet, it was all that divided
Britannia from the barbaric lands beyond.

Freya was gazing at the horizon, lost in her thoughts, when a man’s
voice shattered her peace.

“
Wes hāl!
”

Freya turned, nearly falling in her haste; her gaze fixing
upon a dark haired man standing upon the shingle bank.

He was possibly the most attractive male she had ever seen in
her twenty winters. Dressed in well-fitting breeches cross-gartered to the knee
and a loose shirt, the man had a lithe, athletic frame. He wore a heavy belt
buckled at his waist and his black hair fell in waves about his shoulders. His
face was beautiful – piercing blue eyes, a slight cleft in his chin, a straight
nose and high cheekbones – marred only by an arrogant smirk. His gaze raked her
from head to toe.

It was then that Freya noticed the stranger was holding her
basket of lichen.

“Hello!” he repeated his greeting. “It’s rare I go walking and
find a red-haired nymph cavorting in the sea. What a pleasure!”

Freya’s shock at having her peace intruded upon was replaced
by anger. Where had he come from? He did not look or sound like men from any of
the villages nearby. His eye-color and raven hair marked him as a Celt rather
than an Angle and he had a pleasant, lilting accent. Aware that she was
standing with her naked legs uncovered, she waded to the shoreline and let her
skirts fall about her ankles.

“That basket belongs to me.” She struggled up the bank towards
him, the soft shingle making her movement ungainly. “And I’d thank you to give
it back and spy elsewhere!”

To her irritation the man laughed. As she neared him she saw
he was young, under thirty winters, and even more attractive than she had
previously noted – his smooth skin and long eyelashes were enough to make any
woman envious.

“I wasn’t spying.” He grinned, backing away from her and
holding out the basket teasingly just out of her reach. “Can a weary traveler
be blamed if he comes upon a fair wench bathing? I’m a leather merchant
traveling to Gipeswic to sell my wares. I thought I’d take a stroll along the
shore before catching the evening tide up the Deben – and I’m glad I did. I was
hoping you were about to disrobe completely. What a disappointment!”

“Churl! Give me back my basket!”

“Not till this pretty siren gives me a kiss!” he taunted,
flicking the basket once again just out of reach.

“Dog!” Freya lost her patience and lunged for him. The man
took a couple of rapid steps backwards to avoid a collision but slipped in the
quicksand-like pebbles.

The basket of lichen went flying and the pair of them sprawled
to the ground.

Freya found herself lying atop this arrogant stranger, her
body pressed along the length of his. Her face flamed and she was struggling to
get off him when, quick as a striking adder, he rolled over so that she was
under him.

A moment later, his mouth came down on hers, smothering
Freya’s rage. The touch of his lips against hers, soft yet insistent,
momentarily drove all thought from Freya’s mind. His fingers tangled in her
curls. She gasped at the unbidden heat that suddenly pulsed between them.

“Get off me!” Freya shoved at his chest and knocked him
backwards. Then she drew back her right hand and slapped his face, hard. Her
sanity had returned.

Laughing, the stranger quickly rolled off her, and held his
hands up in surrender.

“Such a fiery wench! Fire to match your flame hair. Have no
fear, I only wanted a kiss, nothing more!”

“Come near me again and I’ll kick you in the cods!” Freya scrambled
to her feet and retrieved her basket.

“You would too,” the stranger replied, not bothering to get
up, but sitting back and admiring her. His blue eyes twinkled. “I like a girl
with spirit!”

Freya ground her teeth together and swallowed her next insult.
The dog was clearly enjoying this and she would not give him the satisfaction
by engaging him further. She could feel his gaze upon her as she gathered the
scattered lichen. Beneath her rage, she felt all hot and confused. She was
anxious to get away from this man. He had ruined her peaceful afternoon. She
hated the way he found her so amusing.

Retrieving the last piece of lichen, Freya turned and bolted
for the bank.

“Wait,” he called after her, “
Hwæt is þīn nama
?”

If he thought she would ever tell him her name then he was
stupid as well as arrogant.

Freya fled into the woods and did not look back.

***

Aidan watched the pretty flame-haired maid storm off and
raised a hand to where she had slapped him. The skin still stung but Aidan did
not mind; he had deserved it.

What a girl,
he smiled at her
retreating back and got to his feet,
‘tis a pity I’ll never see her again.

She was a beauty – with creamy skin and long, shapely limbs.
Her hair was like red fire tumbling down her back. It was not the first time he
had seen a redhead, but he had never met a girl with as much presence as this
one. The memory of her flashing green eyes and the feel of that beautiful mouth
under his, suddenly made his breeches feel uncomfortably tight.

Aidan regretfully turned and began walking south. Now was not
the time to be distracted by winsome wenches. Sigeberht would be wondering what
had become of him. After two days on the longship, journeying across the water
between Gaul and Britannia, and then north along the coast, Aidan had been
eager to stretch his legs; never imagining what he might find during his walk.

Aidan left the shingle shore and climbed up onto the low
bluff. It was a windswept outcrop of land with a flat top. He crossed it and
made his way down a grassy slope towards the waiting longships. Before him
glittered the wide estuary known as Woodbridge Haven. The estuary was the mouth
to the river Deben. On the muddy bank rested Sigeberht’s four longships. It was
a remote and largely uninhabited area. Sigeberht had assured them there would
be few locals to notice their presence here.

Joining the others, Aidan hoped his story about being a
leather merchant on his way to Gipeswic had convinced the girl. He knew he
should tell Sigeberht about her. Yet, something stopped him. Sigeberht would be
angry on two counts: that he had let himself be seen, and that he had let the
girl go. She could raise the alarm and destroy their whole campaign. Still,
Aidan decided to keep quiet. Trusting his instincts, Aidan doubted the redhead
would cause problems for them.

Aidan made his way over to Sigeberht, who was taking a drink
from a water bladder. His lord took a few gulps and offered the bladder to his
thegn
.
Aidan took it and quenched his thirst on the lukewarm, stale water, before
stoppering it.

“Must we wait till nightfall?” Aidan asked. “It’s exposed
here.”

“It’s too risky to sail up the river in daylight,” Sigeberht
replied. “The Deben is wide but, if my memory serves me, there are scattered
villages on its banks. Someone could see us and send word to Ricberht.”

“How far can we travel upriver?”

“As far as the Great Barrows of Kings.” Sigeberht’s face grew
even sterner than usual as he named the place where East Anglia’s rulers were
entombed. “From there ‘tis a two-day journey on foot. It will take us longer
for we must travel at night and hide ourselves during the day. We must reach
Rendlaesham unseen.”

Aidan nodded. As much as he wished to move swiftly now that
they had entered the Kingdom of the East Angles, he knew that Sigeberht spoke
sense. None of them, save Sigeberht, had ever set foot in Britannia before, and
they relied upon their lord’s memory to ensure they reached the King’s Hall
unnoticed. Their greatest advantage was the element of surprise. If the Usurper
discovered their plans, he would gather a
fyrd
, a King’s army, and make
it difficult, if not impossible, for them to defeat him.

“How does it feel to be home milord?” Aidan asked Sigeberht
and was rewarded with a rare, unguarded smile.

“Better than I can describe.” Sigeberht’s grey eyes were
alight as he spoke. “I had no wish to leave these shores and was but a callow
youth when Raedwald banished me. My exile has made me the man I am. I will have
my vengeance and take back what is rightfully mine – or I will die trying.”

With that, Sigeberht called to his men and instructed them to
hide the longships as best they could and find a place to take cover till
nightfall. Sigeberht had told them that this estuary was often used by
merchants travelling up-river to Gipeswic and Rendlaesham. As such, it was not
wise to remain out in the open.

***

Freya strode through the lime-wood copse, her cheeks still
burning. It had been a surreal but humiliating encounter and Freya’s lips still
tingled from the stranger’s kiss. Boys had kissed her before; eager fumbles on
Mother Night at Yule or at Beltaine spring celebrations, but she had never been
kissed by a man.

An insolent man with no manners or honor.

Freya glanced over her shoulder, relieved that the churl had
not followed her, before she quickened her pace towards home.

Wild flowers scattered the woods and iridescent swaths of
bluebells carpeted either-side of the narrow path. Despite the flush of green
and new life around her, spring had been late arriving this year. Even inside
the sheltered copse, the wind had an icy bite and Freya pulled her woolen shawl
close about her.

Ahead, Freya glimpsed the low-slung outline of her home
through the trees and felt her heart lift. She shared the squat, thatched-roof,
wattle and daub cottage with her mother, Cwen. The cottage sat alone in the
woods, at the center of a small clearing. They had lived an isolated life here
over the past four years. The nearest settlement, Bawdsey, was a morning’s
journey on foot, but it was a life they loved.

Freya reached the cottage and pushed open its wattle door.
Inside, she found her mother winding wool onto a distaff; one of Freya’s most
hated chores. It reminded her of the afternoon of weaving that awaited her.

“There you are.” Cwen looked up from her distaff. A small
woman with thick brown hair, Cwen’s hazel eyes twinkled as they settled on her
daughter. “Surely it doesn’t take that long to collect half a basket of
lichen?”

Freya ignored her mother’s jibe and placed the basket on the
work-worn table that sat against one wall. In the center of the cottage, a fire
pit glowed welcomingly. Freya hastened over to it and warmed her chilled
fingers over the flames.

“It’s cold by the water but I found plenty of lichen.”

“I thank you love,” Cwen smiled at her daughter. “I’ve almost
run out.”

“I don’t know what the folk of Bawdsey would do without you.
They’ve come to depend on your skills as a healer.” 

“Flattery won’t get you out of your afternoon chores,” Cwen
reminded her daughter with an arch smile. “That cloak won’t weave itself.”