Nightfall till Daybreak (The Kingdom of the East Angles Book 2) (4 page)

Chapter Three

Ricberht, King of the East Angles, watched the two women he
had summoned enter his hall. The four warriors he had sent to fetch the healer
followed at their heels. They had done well to fetch the women so quickly,
although he had demanded nothing less.

Ricberht’s gaze swept across the healer, and the woman he
presumed to be her daughter. Unlike many peasant women who lost their looks
early due to a hard life, these two were quite lovely. The older woman was
still a beauty, despite her melancholy air, but her daughter was ravishing. An
exotic red-haired wench with milky skin, full and beautifully molded lips; she
had a sultry emerald gaze that intrigued Ricberht. What a pity that none of the
women he was currently considering for marriage were as winsome as this one.
Yet, the fact that this girl was lowborn would not prevent him from enjoying
her.

“Greetings.” Ricberht stood up and only just prevented himself
from wincing as pain lanced up his right leg. “Cwen of Shottisham – your skills
as a healer have reached my ears. I have need of your ministrations. Come.”

Limping heavily, and cursing himself for no longer being able
to hide his injury, Ricberht gingerly stepped down off the dais and made his
way to the far end of the hall. He led them to a private area separated from
the rest of the Great Hall by heavy tapestries.

Ricberht pushed aside the tapestry and ducked inside his
bower. It was a simply furnished area; rush matting covered the floor and a
nest of furs dominated the center of the space. A small window was open,
letting in the sounds of the morning; the crow of a rooster and the plaintive
bleat of a goat waiting for milking. Ricberht limped across to the furs and sat
down heavily. He was only beginning his twenty-eighth summer but this ailment
made him feel twice his age.

This woman must heal me.

Two of his most trusted warriors followed the women into the
king’s bower. Mother and daughter both looked uncomfortable at entering the
king’s private chambers but Ricberht did not want the rest of his household,
his ealdormen and
thegns
, to see his weakness, or hear what he was about
to say to the healer.

“It’s my right leg,” he told the healer when she approached
him. “Take a look and let me hear your judgment.”

Freya followed her mother into the king’s bower. Her hands
that grasped the handle of her mother’s remedy basket were slick with sweat.
The moment the King of the East Angles had looked upon her, Freya had wanted to
turn and run from his hall. His hawkish gaze had fastened upon her and his lust
was palpable.

She never wanted to be alone with this man.

Freya hung back as Ricberht lowered himself onto his furs. Her
mother approached him and gently undid the garters that laced his breeches
around his right calf. Yet, when Cwen attempted to roll up the leg of his
breeches, he let out a strangled cry.

“Careful woman!” The king hissed between clenched teeth.

Cwen frowned.

“I’m afraid sire that I
was
being gentle. If you don’t
wish me to hurt you further I will have to cut open your breeches.”

Ricberht had gone pale and Freya noticed a faint sheen of
sweat now covering his face. He glared at Cwen but eventually nodded.

Cwen unsheathed a small boning knife from the belt at her
waist and carefully cut down the length of material covering the king’s calf.
She then peeled it back to find a thick wad of linen bandages beneath. Freya
could see a dark, yellowed stain on the bandage and when her mother removed
them, the stench that filled the bower made the king’s men take a few hasty
steps backwards. Freya clamped a hand over her mouth to stop herself from
retching. It was the sweet, putrid odor of festering flesh, and Freya had aided
her mother enough times over the years to know that a stench like this boded
ill.

Cwen was the only person in the bower, save the king himself,
who did not shrink away from the sight of the swollen wound that oozed pus. Not
for the first time, her mother’s strength impressed Freya.

“What caused this sire?” Cwen asked gently.

“I had kicked that craven, Eorpwald, to the ground when he
stabbed me. Don’t worry, I slit his throat for that,” Ricberht replied between
gritted teeth. “It was over three moons ago but the wound has never healed.”

Cwen’s mouth compressed at this news before she replied.

“I will need to clean the wound to see the extent of the
festering,” she said finally, “although it may hurt you.”

“Do it then,” Ricberht snapped, “but be quick about it woman.”

“Freya.” Cwen turned to her daughter. “Can you bring me my
basket?”

Freya did as asked, before passing her mother some clean linen
and a bowl of scalding water that one of the warriors had brought with him into
the bower. Working deftly, Cwen opened one of her precious drawstring pouches
of herbs and sprinkled a couple of pinches into the water. Then, she wet one of
the cloths, wrung it out and proceeded to clean Ricberht’s wound.

The king howled and writhed as Cwen worked; so much so that
his men had to hold him down. The fuss he was making surprised Freya. She had
helped her mother at births where women made less noise than this man. Cwen’s
face was grim when she had washed away the pus and examined the wound properly.

Cwen straightened up and fixed the king with a level gaze.
Sweating copiously now, his eyes glassy with pain, Ricberht glared up at her.

“So what’s your judgment healer?” he panted.

“I’m afraid it’s serious sire,” Cwen replied. “I can cut away
the worst of it and make a poultice, but those livid red streaks running down
your shin from the wound tell me that you have waited too long before calling
upon my help. I advise that we remove your leg below the knee rather than risk
the infection spreading.”

“Bloodthirsty bitch!” Ricberht roared. “You’ll not take my leg
off!”

Cwen stepped back, her face blanching at the king’s rage.

“Listen to me woman.” Ricberht lifted himself up on his elbows
and fixed Cwen in a cold, hard stare. “The last person who suggested that
‘cure’ is now swinging from the gibbet outside the town gates. That bungling
fool failed to heal me and then wanted to saw my leg off. I’ll not have it, you
hear me?”

Cwen let his threat hang in the air before she replied. The paleness
in her face was the only sign that the king had scared her.

“Sire,” she ventured, her voice low and calm as if she were
speaking to a frightened child. “You speak the truth. He should not have left
your leg to fester so. Yet, if I do not remove your leg, and the festering
spreads, you will die.”

“Silence bitch!” Richberht snarled; his eyes were glazed with
pain, “I’ll not suffer any more of your flapping tongue. Now heal me!”

Freya watched her mother’s mouth compress into a thin, angry
line.

“I will need a clean knife to cut away the damaged flesh
before I can apply a poultice,” she replied coldly before turning to one of the
warriors. She handed him the knife she had used to cut open the leg of the
king’s breeches. “Put this blade in the fire until it glows red,” she
instructed the man.

With a wary glance at his king, the warrior took the knife and
ducked through the hanging, back into the hall. While the knife was being
cleaned, Cwen set about making a poultice. Freya stood at her mother’s elbow,
as she always did when Cwen worked, passing her the herbs and powders she asked
for. Cwen’s face was tense with concentration as she bashed up the dried herbs
with a little water using the small pestle and mortar she carried in her
basket.

When the warrior returned with the knife, Cwen carefully took
it from him.

“You will both need to hold the king down,” she instructed the
warriors. “This will hurt him.”

Freya stepped back from the bed and watched as her mother
leaned over Ricberht’s festering leg.

Moments later the king started to scream. It was a terrible,
blood-chilling sound and Freya backed up as far as she could away from it,
until her back was pressed up against the tapestry dividing the bower from the
rest of the hall. Ricberht writhed, as if having a fit, and the two warriors
were barely able to hold him down. They called for assistance and it took four
men, pinning Ricberht against the furs, to hold him still while Cwen cut away
the putrid flesh. All the while, Ricberht screamed and howled. It took all of
Freya’s will just to make herself stay inside that bower.

“Freya,” Cwen instructed her eventually. “Help me apply the
poultice.”

The king’s leg was crimson with blood, but at least the pus
was now gone. Freya passed her mother the mortar and watched as Cwen gently
spread it across the gaping wound. She helped her mother wind clean bandages
tightly around Ricberht’s calf. When they had finished, the warriors released
their king and stepped back from him.

Ricberht’s face was murderous. Tears streaked his cheeks and
his gaze burned into Cwen as she stood before him.

“Vile witch,” he croaked, his voice hoarse from screaming.
“You enjoyed maiming your king. I should have you hung for hurting me so.”

“No, sire,” Cwen replied, meeting his gaze boldly. “I did not
want to hurt you. I only did what you instructed.”

Ricberht’s face twisted as he gazed upon the healer. A tense
silence hung in the cramped bower before he spoke again.

“I’ll not suffer a woman with a forked tongue under my roof.”
Ricberht’s voice was low and malevolent. “Gather your belongings and get thee
gone!”

“But sire,” Cwen frowned. “You have instructed me to heal you.
The poultice and bandages must be changed every two days or you will most
certainly die.”

“Your daughter shall stay behind and tend me,” Ricberht
replied with a cruel smile, “and if I die, so shall she.”

The gasp escaped Freya at this news. Cwen stepped back
abruptly from the king’s bedside.

“No m’lord!” Cwen’s boldness disappeared, and desperation rose
in its place. “Please. I can stay and tend your wounds. Let my daughter return
home. I beg you!”

Ricberht smiled; the expression a grimace. “It’s too late for
toadying. Leave behind your basket of herbs and your daughter will make the
poultices. If she serves me well, and heals me then I may consider returning
her to you – but not before.”

“But m’lord…”

“Silence!” Ricberht shouted before turning to his warriors who
had been silently watching the scene unfold. “Drag this woman from Rendlaesham
and if she tries to re-enter the town slay her!”

Two warriors seized Cwen and dragged her towards the doorway.

“No,
mōdor
!” Freya flew at the warriors, fists
flying, but they swatted her aside. The remaining two warriors grabbed Freya
and held her fast. On the edge of hysteria, Freya writhed in their iron grip
and kicked uselessly at their shins. Yet, nothing made them loosen their hold
on her.

Freya and her mother locked gazes as the warriors dragged Cwen
from the bower. Cwen struggled viciously, and dug her heels into the
rush-matting to slow her departure.

“Freya!” Cwen’s face crumpled and tears streaked her face. “My
darling Freya!”

That was Freya’s last glimpse of her mother before the
warriors towed her from sight.

Freya fought her captors – attempting to bite, claw and kick –
while Cwen’s sobs and pleas echoed through the Great Hall. The sound of her
mother’s grief-stricken cries echoed in Freya’s ears, long after the warriors
had dragged her out of earshot.

Eventually, Freya sagged in her captors’ arms and squeezed her
eyes shut against the hot tears that scalded her eyelids.

I will not let this monster see me cry!

She took deep, steadying breaths until she had regained
control. When she opened her eyes, she saw Ricberht was watching her.

“You have your mother’s fire,” he observed with a cool smile
that did not reach his eyes. “Let us hope that you do not have her forked
tongue as well. I do not tolerate shrews.”

Chapter Four

Freya crouched next to the fire pit and removed a disc of
bread from the searing hot griddle hanging above the embers. Working quickly,
so as not to burn her fingers, she flipped the bread into a wide basket and
retrieved more slabs of griddle bread from the fire.

Freya’s vision swam as she worked and she blinked furiously in
an effort to stem her tears. She had not had a moment alone since her capture.
What good would crying do now anyway? 

Retrieving the last disc of griddle bread, Freya straightened
up and brushed flour off her hands. It was early evening and the hall was
starting to fill with rowdy, hungry men, clamoring for their evening meal. A
great cauldron of simmering leek and bean pottage sat at the center of the fire
pit. Servants were ladling it into large clay tureens. A boy was now slicing
the side of mutton that he had been laboriously spit-roasting all afternoon
over the pit. He placed the meat on large wooden platters, which other servants
carried to the table.

Freya was aware of the men’s stares as she carried her basket
of griddle bread the length of the hall, distributing it along the long tables
that ran either side of the fire pit. They were hungry, wolfish stares and,
despite she had never been afraid of men, Freya felt her stomach knot under
their scrutiny. Some of them tried to gain her attention, and some men even
attempted to fondle her as she passed by. Freya’s heart was pounding in her
chest by the time her basket was empty. Glad to have a chore to keep her busy,
she returned to the fire pit and tended to the next batch of griddle bread.

Around her, mead flowed and wooden cups were filled and
emptied. The smoke from the fire hung over the tables and stung Freya’s eyes.
As she stood over the bread, Freya was aware of Ricberht’s presence, and of his
gaze, which often settled upon her.

The king sat at the head of one of the tables, lounging in an
ornately carved oak chair. As the rest of the diners fell upon the pottage,
bread and mutton ravenously, Ricberht ate sparingly and with a listless
appetite. Yet, he drank copiously.

Her mother had been right, Freya reflected as she started turning
the bread – that wound had made Ricberht ill. Even though Cwen had cut away the
putrid flesh, cleaned away the pus and dressed the wound, Freya knew enough of
her mother’s craft to realize that Ricberht was doomed.

If that was the case then so was she.

The evening drew in and the men lingered over the remaining
scraps of dinner and last cups of mead. Eventually, the tables were pulled to
one side and everyone bedded down on the rush-matting floor for the night. The
king’s highest-ranking
thegns
took the best spots, close to the fire,
while the others slept where they could find a space on the crowded floor.
Freya was picking her way across to a small space next to the far wall when the
sound of Ricberht’s voice made her freeze mid-step.

“Girl!” he shouted from where he had unsteadily risen from his
throne. “You will be keeping me company tonight. Come!”

Freya’s face burned at his tone; he addressed her like she was
a dog. She turned and warily met the king’s gaze. She could hear the sniggers
of his men around her. She hesitated to obey Ricberht’s command.

Upon seeing her reluctance, Ricberht’s face turned thunderous.
The copious amount of mead he had drunk had not improved his temper.

“If I have to repeat myself you will pay for it.” His voice,
slurring slightly, echoed across the room, silencing the laughter.

Head downcast, her heart hammering in her ears, Freya did as
he bid. She reached the king’s side, avoiding his gaze when he put a hand on
her shoulder. His fingers dug into her skin and Freya winced.

“Help me to my bower,” he whispered in her ear, his breath
ripe with mead. “You will pleasure your lord tonight.”

It took all of Freya’s will not to rip herself free of his
grip and bolt from the Great Hall. She knew that such an action would be folly.
They would catch her easily and it would only anger Ricberht, who might then
give her to his men.

The king leaned heavily on Freya’s shoulder as she led him to
the far end of the hall. Together, they climbed the raised dais and stepped
behind the heavy tapestries that screened the king’s bower from the rest of his
hall.

It was a chill evening. Servants had shuttered the small
window and replaced the furs on Ricberht’s bed, as the old ones had been ruined
when Cwen lanced his leg. This far from the fire pit, it was so cold that
Freya’s breath steamed in the air. Her bare feet sunk into the soft sheepskin
on the floor and she noticed that servants had adorned the bower with sprigs of
rosemary and lavender, presumably to freshen the room. Yet, the faint odor of
putrefaction still tainted the air.

Ricberht swayed drunkenly against Freya, his hands roughly
fondling her as he did so.

“Help me disrobe,” he ordered.

Freya unclipped the brooches fastening the king’s rabbit-skin
cloak to his shoulders and removed the cloak itself. She then undid the belt
that girdled a long-sleeved tunic around his waist. It was made of fine linen
and had a red silk border. Under it, he wore a thin, sleeveless tunic.

Ricberht sat down heavily on the furs and stretched his legs
out in front of him.

“Ungarter me.”

Freya knelt before him and started untying the laces.

“Such a luscious maid,” Ricberht slurred, staring down at her
as she worked. “I will enjoy having your pretty mouth pleasure me!”

Horrified, Freya glanced up at Ricberht and saw that the
king’s gaze was bright with fever. She knew little of men and their needs; her
isolated life had protected her from such things, yet she could see the king
was not in a fit state. Freya’s hands trembled as she began unlacing the second
leg of his breeches. She could not bear the thought of touching him – or of
letting him maul her.

I’ll die if he rapes me.

All of a sudden, Ricberht slumped back on the furs and lay
there, unmoving.

Freya stopped unlacing his breeches and stood up. The king lay
so still that, for a moment, she thought he was dead. Yet, she could see the
shallow rise and fall of his chest. A moment later, he began to snore gently.

Freya let out the breath she had been holding.

Thanking the gods, who surely must have been watching over her
this evening, Freya stepped back from the furs. She could not leave the bower,
for she risked harassment from the king’s men if she did so. Instead, she would
have to sleep here.  She glanced once more at Ricberht. He was already sleeping
deeply and Freya decided that it would be unlikely that he would stir before
daybreak. For the moment, she was safer inside the king’s bower.

Freya lay down on the sheepskin at the foot of the furs, as
far as possible from the sleeping king, and curled up into a ball. Outside the
bower, she could hear muffled conversation from those who had not yet gone to
bed. Freya could not sleep. Instead, she waited, staring out at the darkness,
until the Great Hall finally quietened.

Now that she had a moment of privacy, the tears would not
come. Instead of grief, Freya felt hollow and chilled. She had won but a short
reprieve tonight. Upon the dawn, she would not be able to escape Ricberht’s
attentions.

What if I kill him in his sleep?
She thought.
I
could smother him with this sheepskin. I’m strong enough and he is weakened…

Freya did not entertain such thoughts for long. Once the
king’s men discovered Ricberht was dead, they would know she was to blame. She
shuddered to think what they would do to her.

The night wore on and Freya felt her eyelids begin to droop.
After a night and day without sleep, she could not hold back the tide of
fatigue any longer. Eventually, Freya fell into a fitful, restless slumber,
filled with dark dreams.

***

Shouts tore Freya from her sleep. Disoriented and, forgetting
for the moment where she was, Freya sat up.

What am I doing here?

Then, the events of the last two days rushed back and Freya
froze.

The shouts were coming from inside the Great Hall; from behind
the tapestries that shielded the king’s bower from the rest of the space.
Shortly after, screams, the clash of iron and thud of shields and axes echoed
through the hall. Freya scrambled to her feet.

Woden save me!

Freya went to Ricberht, who still lay sleeping. Oblivious to
the chaos inside his hall, the king’s slumber was deep. Freya shook him.

“M’lord!”

Ricberht groaned and pushed her away.

“Leave me be,” he slurred. “Let me sleep!”

“M’lord please!” Freya’s voice was shrill with panic. “The
Great Hall is under attack. Your men are dying. Sire!”

Her words finally reached Ricberht. He struggled into a
sitting position. The single candle that burnt in the corner of the bower
highlighted the gaunt angles of his face and the fury in his dark eyes.

“Pass me my sword!” he growled at Freya. “It’s over there.
Now
slut!”

Spying the weapon leaning up against the wall near the window,
Freya hurried to obey. The iron sword was heavy in her grasp and her hands were
shaking when she handed it to Ricberht.

The king had managed to struggle to his feet, although the
effort had caused sweat to bead on his forehead. He snatched the sword from
Freya and drew the blade from its leather scabbard in one practiced movement.
Then, ignoring his slave, he limped across the bower. Shoving the tapestry
aside, Ricberht joined the fray.

Freya had just one glimpse of the mayhem beyond, before the
curtain swung closed.

The interior of the Great Hall was a sea of fighting, writhing
men, blood, gore and swinging axes. Some faces gleamed with the glory of
battle, while others were ashen with fear.

One glance was all Freya needed.

Shaking, she sank back on the edge of the furs. She was
trapped in here, and soon they would come for her. What she needed was a
weapon, but it did not appear as if there were any within the king’s bower.
Freya frantically searched the furs, hoping to find a knife hidden there, but
her search was in vain. The rest of the bower was empty – there was not even a
cup or spoon she could use to defend herself.

The din of battle beyond the tapestry had reached its peak.
The screams of the dying and the war cries of the living echoed amongst the
rafters.

Freya crawled into a corner. With her back up against the
wall, she drew her knees up to her chest and waited.

The fighting had died away – moving outside the hall – when the
tapestry was ripped aside. Leather-clad men carrying spears, axes and shields
burst into the king’s bower. Still held in the thrall of battle – their eyes
wild, their faces splattered with blood – the warriors were terrifying.

Freya hunched back against the wall and prayed that the gods
would make her invisible.

“Nothing, just the king’s whore.” One of the men spat out a
tooth and a gob of blood on the rush-matting.

  One of the men grabbed Freya by the arm and hauled her to
her feet.

“Aye, and a fair one at that!”

“Let me be!” Freya snarled, outrage suddenly overcoming
terror. She kicked the warrior in the shin, twisted free of him and sprinted
for the open hall beyond.

Freya had only taken a few steps when she collided with a man
who strode up the steps to the bower. It was like hitting an iron wall. Freya
bounced off his breast plate and staggered backwards, into the arms of the
warriors she had been running from.

“Who’s this?” a deep male voice boomed.

Freya looked up into the face that belonged to the voice and
shrank back. It was a cold, hard face; long with austere angles. The man had
flint grey eyes and a wintry expression. Instinctively, she knew he was this
rabble’s leader.

“Just a slut we found in the king’s bower.” One of the men
hauled Freya upright and placed a possessive arm around her waist. “A fine
prize she is too!”

Their leader’s face twisted and he stepped up onto the dais.
He was tall; towering over the man who held Freya.

“There’ll be no rape here,” he rumbled. “We may have shed a
lake of blood to take back Rendlaesham, but I’ll not have my men rape and
pillage like northmen!”

The warrior reluctantly let go of Freya and stepped back from
her, his face sullen.

“Milord.” Another man climbed the steps behind their leader.
“We’ve taken the outer buildings as well and secured the gates. Rendlaesham is
ours.”

“Thank you Aidan.” The leader turned to the warrior, his
expression softening slightly. “You and your men have done well.”

The warrior stepped up onto the dais.

“Woden!” The man’s gaze swept over Freya, his eyes widening.
“What are you doing here?”