Nightfall till Daybreak (The Kingdom of the East Angles Book 2) (8 page)

Chapter Eight

Freya watched the king and an entourage of warriors – with
Aidan among them – ride out of the stable yard.  She stood on the steps,
listening to sound of their fading hoof-beats as they rode towards the town’s
rear gates.  When they had gone, Freya turned back to the Great Hall.

A smile crept across her face.

Sigeberht had decided to visit Iken, a newly founded monastery
that lay just under a day’s ride away from Rendlaesham. He had informed Freya
and the other slaves that he would be away at least three days, before leaving
them a back-breaking list of chores to complete during his absence.

Excitement formed a hard fist in Freya’s stomach when she
re-entered the hall. This was her chance. She would be a fool not to grasp it
with both hands.

She made her way towards the king’s bower, to begin her task
of carrying the furs outdoors for beating, but her mind was elsewhere. She
would hide some food later in the day. With Sigeberht’s hawk-like eye removed
from the hall it would be easy to put some food aside, with a bladder of water.
She would need to slip unnoticed from the hall after midnight. Fortunately, the
privy was outside, beside the stables, so it was usual for people to come and
go from the hall during the night. She would also have to find a way to slip
past the guards at the Great Hall’s gate. This task was trickier; the town’s
gates would also be closed till dawn – and guarded.

Freya picked up an armful of furs and pushed the heavy
tapestry aside. She made her way through the hall, past where a group of women
worked at their distaffs. The women wound wool onto wooden spindles that would
later be woven into fabric. They gossiped as they worked, ignoring Freya and
the handful of other slaves who moved about the interior of the hall.  Since
Sigeberht’s arrival at Rendlaesham, a number of ealdormen and
thegns
had
flocked to him from throughout the kingdom. Now that Ricberht the Usurper was
dead, they pledged their loyalty to a king who had reclaimed the throne for the
Wuffingas.

These women were wives of high ranking men. Observing them,
Freya could not prevent a stab of envy at the sight of their fine clothes,
jeweled brooches and arm rings. She felt like a drab in their presence. They
spoke with high, musical voices and laughed often.

In contrast, Freya had not laughed since her arrival here.

***

A cool sea breeze feathered across Aidan’s face. He inhaled
the salty tang and was reminded, for the first time in years, of the air in the
tiny village where he had lived as a boy on the west coast of Ireland.  He had
only vague memories of his homeland, but the smell of the air had always stayed
with him. Despite that he had not wanted to accompany the king on this visit,
Aidan felt himself looking forward to seeing the coast again.

The monastery sat on the southern banks of the River Alde, at
the edge of marshland. At this point the river snaked its way through mud
flats, reed beds and islands. It was late afternoon when the party made their
way, single file, along a narrow path. The trees drew back and the travelers
rode out onto a mound that jutted out into the wide estuary.

There, ahead of them, sat a sturdy wooden hall with a thatch
roof. A sparse vegetable garden surrounded the hall. It was a lonely spot.  The
sun glittered off the water of the incoming tide and birds dived low over the
mud flats. On to the northwest, Aidan could see a wall of reeds waving in the
breeze against the low horizon.

“M’lord,” one of Sigeberht’s
thegns
, a local man who
had served both King Raedwald and his son, Eorpwald, called out.  “We are but a
short ride from Snape. On the other side of the marsh lies Annan’s hall, where
your mother lives. Perhaps you would like to pay your kin a visit when we finish
our business here?”

Sigeberht cast a dark glance in the warrior’s direction before
turning his attention to the monastery before them.

“I did not come here to pay them a visit,” he replied, his
face twisting. “We have nothing to say to each other.”

Aidan rode in silence behind his king. In his mind,
Sigeberht’s foul mood was due to more than a burning conscience. Although the
king would not admit it, his mother had sorely disappointed him. It was more
than her stubborn refusal of his god. Perhaps during all those years in exile,
Sigeberht had formed an image of his mother that could never stand up to the
reality. Even though she had appeared pleased to see him, it had been clear to
all that she had more affection for her nephews than her lost son. The harsh
words they had exchanged could never be taken back.

As the riders approached the monastery, a man emerged from a
doorway. He was lean and dressed in an ankle-length, un-dyed, woolen tunic that
was belted at the waist with a girdle. A small, drawstring pouch hung from the
girdle and swung against his hip as the man approached the newcomers. When the
man neared them, Aidan could see he was at least five and forty winters. He was
balding, and had a weathered, gentle face.

“
Wes hāl!
” he greeted them, his face splitting
into a smile when his gaze rested upon Sigeberht. “We are indeed blessed if
this is King Sigeberht, the Righteous, before me?”

“It is,” Sigeberht replied gruffly, his face softening for the
first time in days. “I thank thee for your welcome.”

“I am Botulf,” the man smiled. From behind him, Aidan saw
another two monks, younger than their leader and dressed in the same woolen
tunics, emerge from the hall. They lacked their leader’s charisma and both
looked a bit worried. Aidan realized that living in such an isolated spot made
the monks vulnerable to raids. Sigeberht had not advised the monks of his
coming.

The king swung down from his horse and extended a hand to
Botulf.

“I have sorely missed the company of men such as yourself,”
Sigeberht bent and kissed the monk’s hand. “I have much to discuss with you. I
hope your hall can accommodate us for a day or two.”

“Of course sire.” Botulf bowed his head. “You are our honored
guests.”

They sat on mats around the fire pit and ate pottage and
freshly baked griddle bread. Botulf’s hall was simply furnished, with little in
the way of furniture. A heavy curtain made of rabbit fur divided the long
space, creating a separate prayer room at the back of the hall.

“I fear our food may not be to your men’s taste.” Botulf
passed Sigeberht an earthen bowl of pottage. “We do not consume meat and our
fare is very humble.”

“They will not complain. I do not encourage overindulgence in
my hall,” Sigeberht replied.

Aidan received his bowl of pottage. After a mouthful, he decided
this was even worse than the muck they served in the king’s hall.  No wonder
the monks were so thin. He broke off a piece of griddle bread and ate that
instead; it was still warm and although made of coarse flour, it was tasty
enough. Chewing slowly, he listened to Sigeberht and Botulf’s conversation.
They were speaking quietly, and only Aidan sat close enough to make out their
words.

“I find myself in a difficult position Botulf,” the king
began, staring down at his pottage. “When I heard that Ricberht had killed my
half-brother and taken the crown of the East Angles, I was filled with rage. A
need for vengeance fuelled me. It drove me across the water and, blind with it,
I struck Ricberht down and took back Rendlaesham for my family. Now that the throne
is mine, I feel empty, lost.”

“Why is that?” Botulf replied gently. “Surely the throne was
your right?”

“It was, but we butchered many to take it. I feel that I have
sinned greatly, and that our Lord will never forgive me.”

“Sigeberht.” The monk leaned towards his king, his face
solemn. “May I say that you are most severe with yourself; far more so than I
believe our Lord would be.”

The king shrugged and stared moodily into the fire pit’s
flickering flames.

“You are right to feel sorrow for the lives you and your men
have taken. But there are ways to atone for it.”

“How?” The king looked up and seized the monk’s gaze in his.

Botulf smiled and took another mouthful of pottage.

“Tomorrow we shall talk of this. For now, fill your belly my
king, enjoy our hospitality and rest.”

***

In Rendlaesham, a solitary figure picked her way towards the
door of the Great Hall. The only light within the hall came from the glowing
embers of the fire pit; just enough light for Freya to make out the shapes of
slumbering men and women that carpeted the rush-matting.

It took an age to cross the hall and Freya’s heart was
pounding when she reached the doorway. Slipping out into the night, Freya
welcomed the cool air on her heated face. She paused on the steps outside,
steeling her nerves, before she descended into the stable yard below. In the
shadow of one of the buildings, under a pile of straw, she fished out the bag
she had hidden just after dusk. She had filled a small jute sack with two
loaves of bread, a large slab of cheese and a water bladder.

Slinging the sack over her shoulder, Freya crept towards the
gatehouse. She hugged the shadows and crept silently towards the gates. She
could see that they were open. Then, she spied the outline of a guard, leaning
up against the wall.

Freya shrank back into the shadows.

Woden save me.

Had he seen her?

It appeared not, for a moment later Freya heard the rumble of
snoring. The Father of the Gods appeared to be watching over her. The guard was
asleep. Freya tip-toed past the snoring guard, holding her breath as she did
so.

On the empty street beyond, she made her way up to the back
gates, only to find them locked. Heart thumping, she retraced her steps and
walked through the streets of Rendlaesham towards the main gates. The town
slumbered, and apart from two drunken warriors leaving the mead hall, she saw
no one. The men were so drunk that they paid Freya no mind. They staggered
across the street in front of her, barely able to walk, let alone take note of
their surroundings. Nonetheless, Freya froze to the spot and held her breath
till they disappeared down a narrow lane.

Upon her arrival at the main gates, Freya also found them
locked for the night. It was as she had feared. She had no choice now but to
wait until daybreak. The guards usually opened the gates at first light, to
allow out the peasants, who worked the fields around Rendlaesham. It was risky
to wait until then before leaving, but with no other choice, Freya slipped into
the shadows and looked for a hiding place. Crouching under the eaves of a
nearby house, she began the long wait till dawn.

***

Aidan awoke at daybreak and, bleary-eyed, accompanied
Sigeberht to the altar on the other side of the partition.

He would have preferred to sleep a little longer. Yet the king
had insisted that Aidan, who had been baptized over five winters earlier, join
him for morning prayers. Like the rest of the monastic structure, the prayer
room was starkly furnished; a large wooden cross stood upon a carved table at
one end and sheepskins lay on the dirt floor before it. Stubby tallow candles
burned around the edge of the space. The delicate flames guttered as the two
men made their way before the altar and knelt on the sheepskin.

Aidan bent his head, listening as Sigeberht murmured the
prayer in Latin. Aidan had no idea as to the meaning of the words, and frankly
he did not care. He had only allowed himself to be baptized to appease
Sigeberht. If the king knew just how little this interested Aidan, it would
have upset him. Still, Aidan told himself that it was the price he’d had to pay
for Sigeberht’s love. Yet, there were times, such as now, when Aiden wondered
if the cost had been too high.

As they prayed, Aidan’s thoughts drifted to Freya. Her sensual
face swam into his mind. He remembered the look in her eyes when she had gazed
upon him at the water trough. It surprised Aidan that he had started to think
of her so much of late. Although he enjoyed women, he took a practical approach
to them. He viewed Lothar’s longing for Aedilhild with slight derision; his
friend risked mockery if the girl chose another at Beltaine.

Freya was lovely, with enough fire to keep a man on his toes.
Yet, Aidan had not intended to take his interest in her past a bit of mild
flirting. She was Sigeberht’s slave, and Aidan needed his king’s favor if he
was ever to rise to ealdorman. It would be so easy to get the slave girl alone
and take his pleasure. He had not been with a woman since Yule and his body
craved release. Unfortunately, getting his way with her would anger the king.

They knelt for a while, and Sigeberht’s voice droned on.
Aidan’s knees were beginning to ache when the king finally straightened up.
Gazing upon the cross, he crossed himself and got to his feet.

Unspeaking, the two men made their way outside.

The sun was rising to the east; its golden rays glistening
over the mud flats. They circled the hall, along a dirt path that led through
beds of cabbages, leeks and turnips, and found Botulf standing at the edge of
the bluff. He held an iron cross high and was whispering under his breath.
Sigeberht and Aidan halted and watched the monk. A short time later, when he
had finished, Botulf turned to them and smiled. Aidan saw that the monk’s lean
face was etched with fatigue.