Nightfall till Daybreak (The Kingdom of the East Angles Book 2) (9 page)

“Unfortunately, many evil spirits reside in this place,” he
explained. “I must admit that expelling them exhausts me.”

“Perhaps you would be happier basing yourself elsewhere?”
Sigeberht replied with a frown. “We could build a monastery together nearer
Rendlaesham, away from these evil marshes.”

Botulf shook his head. “I thank you, milord, but these
marshes, although a difficult place for a man of god, have called me to them. I
intend to grow my community here and travel up the River Alde to visit your
kingdom and help those in need.”

Sigeberht shrugged, although Aidan could see from his
expression that the monk’s refusal had displeased him.

“I wish to aid you,” he told the monk as they wandered back
towards the hall. “Tell me how and it shall be done.”

Botulf looked a little surprised at the king’s offer. He
studied Sigeberht’s face a moment before replying.

“We have everything we need here. The only assistance you
could give us is to spread the word about this monastery, and encourage those
who have felt god’s call to join us.”

“I could leave one of my men here?” Sigeberht suggested,
turning to where Aidan trailed behind them. “Aidan. You aided me in my quest
for vengeance – your men slaughtered Ricberht’s at my request. It’s now time to
atone for it. You shall remain here, and take your vows.”

Panic tore through Aidan at Sigeberht’s words.

“Sire, I will do no such thing!”

Sigeberht’s face darkened.

“What, do you defy your king?”

“Sigeberht.” Botulf stepped between them and placed a calming
hand on the king’s arm. “You cannot demand a man join us. It’s a calling, not
an obligation. This man is a warrior; he is not made for serving god. Leave him
be.”

Ignoring the monk, Sigeberht glowered at Aidan.

“I gave you this life,” he growled. “I elevated you from a
slave to the commander of my army and this is how you repay me?”

“Milord, the price is too high,” Aidan replied through gritted
teeth. “I will obey you in most things. But not in this.”

The two men stared at each other. Although he stood upon the
brink, Aidan did not back down. If this was all the future offered him, he
would have willingly stayed in Gaul. Sigeberht owned his body; he would not
have his soul as well.

“Send me those suited to this life,” Botulf repeated. He
eventually managed to gain Sigeberht’s attention. The king dragged his gaze
away from Aidan’s and nodded brusquely at the monk. Then he turned, his cloak
billowing in the morning breeze, and stalked off.

Aidan and Botulf watched him go, before the monk turned to
Aidan.

“Do not trouble yourself. He will see it our way eventually,”
Botulf assured him.

 “I thank you, Botulf.” Aidan gave the monk a strained smile.
“He would have not let the matter go so easily if you had not objected.”

Aidan glanced in the direction that Sigeberht had disappeared
with a sinking heart. He may have got his way, but in doing so he had just
damaged a relationship that had taken years to build. He hoped that the king
would not take his defiance as a sign of disloyalty. If that was the case,
Aidan’s dreams would never be realized.

***

The gates to Rendlaesham rumbled open with the sunrise. Head
bent low, and grateful for the mist that curled through the streets, Freya
joined the crowd of peasants waiting to start a day’s toil in the fields. The
mist had turned them into ghostly shapes and Freya fell in behind them. She
kept her head down as she passed through the gates, looking neither left nor
right.

Fortunately, no one paid her any mind. Not even the peasants
who stumbled forward in the half-light, barely awake.

Freya walked briskly along the lane that led out through the
fields. She did not even risk a glance behind her, lest one of the guards spy
her slave collar and realize who she was. Once again, the wreathing mist was
her ally.

Around twenty feet from the gates, Freya disappeared into the
murk.

She broke into a run and did not slow her pace until
Rendlaesham lay far behind her.

Chapter Nine

Freya traveled south, making for the River Deben and the Great
Barrows of Kings; from there she would be able to follow the river south-east to
Woodbridge Haven. On foot, she guessed that the journey would take at least
four days.

Of course they would send out men after her. Hiding from them
would slow her down.

The morning wore on, and the mist burned away to reveal a
bright, windy day. The farther she walked, the more nervous Freya became. Her
ears strained for the sound of hoof-beats, the baying of hounds and the shouts
of men. She was beginning to tire. Her coarse shift clung to her sweaty back
and her feet ached. Eventually, she veered off the road and walked parallel to
it, under a canopy of trees. Through the coppicing lime-wood, she caught
glimpses of the shadowy figures of travelers on the road between the Great
Barrows of Kings and Rendlaesham.

As yet, there was no sign of her pursuers.

Perhaps they were waiting till Sigeberht returned. She was a
slave, after all. His men may have thought the king cared not if he lost one
female
theow
. Perhaps the king would not want to waste men and horses on
her. In any case, Sigeberht was not due back from Iken for another day at
least. This thought filled Freya with hope. She would be able to put
considerable distance between herself and Rendlaesham by then.

By mid-afternoon, Freya was too weary to continue. Her
breathing came in ragged gasps and her legs dragged. Her tiredness was made
worse by the fact that she had not slept the night before. Freya had not dared
close her eyes while she crouched in the shadows near Rendlaesham’s gates, for
she had feared that if she fell asleep she might miss her chance to escape.

She decided to rest for the remainder of the day and travel by
night. It would be safer to continue her journey after dark, when there would
be fewer travelers on the road. Climbing a mighty oak, she found a spot on a
wide branch and leaned against the trunk. She ate some bread and cheese, before
washing it down with a gulp of stale water. Then, she gingerly stretched out on
the branch, laying face down against its rough surface.

Freya wondered how she would ever fall asleep in such an uncomfortable
spot. She worried that she might fall out of the tree and hurt herself – but
moments later, the dark abyss of sleep took her.

When Freya awoke, night shrouded the world. The cold had woken
her. She sat up, shivering, and stiffly climbed down from the oak, pulling her
bag of provisions with her. At the foot of the tree she hiked up her skirts and
relieved her bladder. She peered around her, waiting until her eyes fully
adjusted to the darkness before she stood up.

Fortunately, there was a full moon out. It cast a silver light
over the copse of trees, making them appear as if they were frosted. The moon
would light her way, but Freya hesitated before moving off. The forest, which
appeared friendly by day, was a cold, frightening place at night. It was full
of strange sounds and deep shadows.

For the first time since fleeing Rendlaesham, Freya felt fear
seize her. There would be wild animals about: wolves and boars. She had heard
that outlaws patrolled the forests around Rendlaesham. Perhaps it had not been
wise to wait until dark to continue her journey.

Freya took a few deep, steadying breaths before she slipped
through the trees towards the road.

When she stepped out onto the hard-packed earth, she was
amazed at how bright the moon shone; it illuminated the world in an ethereal
light. Ignoring her pounding heart and sweaty palms, she strode out along the
road, jumping and twitching at every movement in the bushes, and every shadow
that moved in the trees.

Ahead, Freya watched a white owl plummet to the earth and
seize a door-mouse that had been scurrying across the road. She stopped a
moment, her heart hammering, and watched the bird fly off with its prey.
Nearby, the lonely cry of a wolf echoed through the night. Freya broke out in a
cold sweat and resumed her journey, increasing her pace as she did so.

Fool – you never thought about the dangers you
might encounter on the road, did you?
She berated herself.
If
you had you might never have had the courage to run away.

It was too late now for such regrets. Freya had to keep
moving, although she prayed for the dawn to arrive swiftly.

She walked and walked, until her legs ached with fatigue and
her senses numbed. Finally, just as the eastern sky lightened, Freya reached
the shores of the river Deben. Here, close to the river’s upper reaches, the
river was narrow, but as Freya followed it south-east, the Deben’s banks
gradually drew wider apart. The tide was out and the mud near the banks
glistened when the first rays of sun peeked over the horizon.

After a brief rest on the river bank, and another nibble of
her provisions, Freya resumed her journey. It was mid-morning when she spied
the silhouettes of the Great Barrows of Kings ahead. It was hard to believe
that just a moon’s cycle earlier, she and her mother had alighted here on their
journey to Rendlaesham. So much had happened since then.

Freya approached the burial ground warily. The barrow nearest
her was the largest of them all – the burial mound of King Raedwald, who they
had entombed with all his treasures inside a longship.

Looking upon it, Freya remembered her father’s funeral – it
had been a very different affair to the king’s. Outside the walls of
Rendlaesham, they had laid Aelli of Gipeswic upon a pyre. After dark, those who
had known and loved the red-haired warrior formed a circle around the pyre.
Cwen, her eyes haunted, and her voice strained, had sung a lament for her dead
husband, before she stepped forward and lit the fire. The memory of the sadness
in her mother’s voice as she sang made Freya’s heart ache, even now.

What good was loving when all it brought you was pain?

Freya was so caught up in her thoughts and memories that she
did not notice the group of men that stood, resting their horses, in the shadow
of trees nearby. Her gaze had been fastened upon King Raedwald’s barrow; she
had not thought to glance at the copse of trees beyond.

She had stopped before the barrow, and was gazing up at it,
when a chill feathered up her spine and made the fine hair on the back of her
neck prickle. A moment later, a man’s shout caused her to swivel towards the
trees.

“
Cuman hēr wlitignes!
” one of the men called.

Come here beautiful!

Freya turned on her heel and sprinted back the way she came.

Shouts echoed behind her as the men gave chase. Exhausted and
frightened, Freya knew she could not outrun them. Her tired legs would not move
fast enough. She abandoned her bundle of provisions and sprinted towards the
cover of the woodland.

The trees were too far away. She would not reach them in time.

Suddenly, Freya’s ankle rolled. She collapsed with a scream,
and toppled into the reeds on the river bank.

Within moments, they were on her.

Rough hands pulled her out of the reeds. Coarse laughter
followed as one of the men pulled her against him and fondled her.

“Let me go!” Freya kicked at the man’s shins. “Lout!”

“She’s got fire this one!” the man laughed. Then he shook her,
so hard that Freya’s teeth rattled. The man who groped her was young and
sinewy, with a pox-scarred complexion. He leered at her. The other men
surrounding him were similarly dressed in muddy breeches – cross-gartered to
the knee – rough-spun woolen tunics and tattered cloaks. They grinned at Freya,
as if they could not believe their luck.

A man, more finely dressed than the rest, pushed his way
through the gawking mob and approached Freya. He was tall, with the same
brooding dark looks of Ricberht; although unlike the dead king, who had been
clean-shaven, this man wore a short, neatly trimmed beard. He carried himself
with warrior arrogance, displaying a number of bronze, silver and gold arm
rings upon his bare arms. Incongruous with the rest of his appearance, he also
wore a small iron cross around his neck.

“Let her go, Oeric. I wish to see our prize.”

Oeric reluctantly obliged. Freya shook herself free of him and
turned to face her captor.

“Now, what do we have here?” he mused, stopping before her. He
reached out and touched the slave collar about Freya’s neck.

“What is your name wench?”

“Freya,” she replied reluctantly.

“And the collar you wear? To whom do you belong?”

Freya raised her chin and glared at the warrior. She belonged
to no man. Yet, she was not bold enough to state that here, surrounded by a
group of thugs.

“King Sigeberht,” came her cold reply.

The stranger raised a dark eyebrow.

“Really? Am I right in guessing that you have run away?”

Freya looked down at her feet. Her vision swam with tears.

“I thought as much,” the warrior reached out, took hold of her
chin and forced her to meet his gaze. “What luck, for we are headed to
Rendlaesham. We shall take you with us – and I shall hand you over to the king
personally.”

“Lord Ecgric,” Oeric whined. “I thought me and the lads could
have some fun with the girl. The king never has to know that we found her.”

Freya’s breathing stopped. She glanced up at their leader –
Ecgric – to see his reaction.

“Jolthead,” Ecgric sneered at the younger man. “This is just
the opportunity we need to find favor with the new king. Such a fair slave will
be sorely missed, I’d wager. You can find yourself a whore in Rendlaesham.
Touch the girl and I will cut off your cods.”

Oeric glowered at his leader but remained silent.

Freya slowly let out the breath she had been holding. While
she had this rabble’s attention, she wanted to make sure that rape was indeed
out of the question.

“I thank you. The king is a pious man like yourself,” she
motioned to the cross about Ecgric’s neck. “He keeps me as a
theow
for I
am a maid still. It would anger him most foully if you handed me back to him
spoiled.”

Ecgric’s mouth pursed, his eyes narrowing.

“You are a maid with much to say for herself,” he observed.
“Something I would beat out of a woman. Your mouth is much prettier when
closed; I suggest you hold your tongue for the remainder of your time with us.
When I return you to the king, I will see to it that he has you flogged.”

***

When the king’s Great Hall appeared in the distance, Freya’s
heart started to race. Her spirits, already flagging from a day’s travel with
Ecgric and his band, were at the lowest ebb of her life. A wave of self-pity
crashed over her as they trotted down the hill towards the town gates.

Escape had seemed like such a valiant idea. She had not
allowed herself to think of the consequences if she was recaptured.

Freya rode in front of Ecgric. She had endured hours with his
arms about her, his breath hot on her neck. He may have not allowed himself or
his men to rape her, but that did not stop him from pushing himself lewdly
against her as they rode. The only positive aspect of her return to Rendlaesham
was that she would escape this man’s foul attentions.

They clattered into the town and up the main thoroughfare
towards the Great Hall. It was early evening and the sun cast a golden hue over
the rooftops. Townsfolk thronged the streets, gawking at the band that rode
through their midst.

Miserable, Freya kept her eyes fixed straight ahead. When they
rode in through the gates, into the Great Hall’s stable yard, her vision had
blurred with tears.

Sigeberht’s rage would be blistering. She could only hope that
he had not yet returned from Iken.

Ecgric drew up his horse and dismounted, pulling Freya down
after him. She looked about, her fragile hopes dissolving. The king’s grey
stallion was being rubbed down outside the stable complex. It appeared that
their arrival had coincided with Sigeberht’s after all.

***

Aidan followed the king outside. Together they descended the
steps into the stable yard. A dark-haired warrior with a neat beard,
accompanied by a roughly-dressed rabble, awaited them.

Aidan’s gaze swiftly moved to where Freya, her gaze fixed upon
the ground, stood before the newcomers.

Foolish girl,
he thought with
exasperation.
What have you done?

Sigeberht had only just learned that one of his
theow
had run off. They had just entered the hall after seeing to their horses when
the arrival of this group of strangers was announced. It appeared that Freya
had not gotten far.

“My king.” The stranger knelt and inclined his head. “I heard
that Sigeberht the Righteous had reclaimed the throne for the Wuffingas. I am
here to offer you my service, and that of my men. I am Ecgric of Exning – and I
pledge you my allegiance.”